


'Til All My Scars Bleed Golden

by La_Temperanza



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Blood and Violence, Canon Compliant, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Injuries, Post-Season/Series 01, Sabotage, Stalking, Threats, Whump, YOI Shit Bang 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 06:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11961237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Temperanza/pseuds/La_Temperanza
Summary: Yuuri always figured there were fans of Viktor out there who hated his guts.He just never realized how far they would go to show it.





	'Til All My Scars Bleed Golden

**Author's Note:**

> So it always intrigued me how in the series, Yuuri kept mentioning he was okay with being hated for stealing Viktor away, and I wondered, "What if he really was hated and one of Viktor's fans did something about it?" And then I saw [this prompt](https://yurionicekink.dreamwidth.org/881.html?thread=97137#cmt97137) on the kink meme and thus this fic was born. Title comes from the song "Legend" by The Score.
> 
> Thanks to the mods behind YOI Shit Bang for running this, and a huge THANK YOU to my artist, katsukifatale, not only for their art but their advice as well. You can see the wonderful art they made for this fic [HERE](http://aetgart.tumblr.com/post/164826697095/til-all-my-scars-bleed-golden-link-tba-by)! Definitely go check it out!
> 
> (Additional Warnings: brief description of a panic attack, small mention of binge eating, and potentially disturbing dream imagery)

He finds the letter, shoved through a crack in his assigned locker, after a particularly grueling day of practice.

At first it appears to be just a plain, nondescript piece of paper, folded in half, with no name or markings on it as far as he can tell. But when Yuuri opens it and reads the message inside, it quickly becomes clear who it's intended for.

> **Go back to where you came from. Or else.**

Immediately he chalks it up as someone’s cruel, twisted idea of a joke. After all, he’s only seen notes like this--the jagged letters cut from the pages of magazines--in movies and television shows; in fiction. He’s never imagined it to be something that happens in real, everyday life.

But to be honest, he’s half-expected it, or at least something along the lines. He’s been very much aware of the possibility that there are those out there who resent him, simply for stealing Viktor away; hell, he even used it as inspiration somewhat during his short program performance at Rostelecom, wanting to prove to the rest of the world that he’s the only one to satisfy Viktor. And while he’s heard nothing but positive comments directed his way since he’s moved to Russia to train, it makes sense that there’s still a few who are secretly not so keen about his presence at the St. Petersburg rink.

He’s not going to let one measly note bother him though. Maybe if it had been sent back after the disaster at Sochi, back when his self-confidence had hit the lowest of lows. It would've been just another hit to his already well-damaged psyche. Though technically, it had been his own decision to slink back home after his failure at the Grand Prix Final and then the Nationals, the urge to retire before he embarrassed himself any further looming in the back of his mind. He hadn’t needed some anonymous letter for that.

But now? Yeah, he’s a little upset, but that’s because he’s _mad_. Just not for the reasons one would probably expect. _Viktor’s_ the one who asked Yuuri to come here, _Viktor’s_ the one who made the decision to return to skating while still continuing to be Yuuri’s coach. So Yuuri is angry that whoever this mysterious person is, they seem to find fault in the fact that Viktor chose _him_. And that’s something Yuuri is very defensive about.

Almost as if he can sense he’s on Yuuri’s mind, Viktor pops into the locker room at that very moment. “Yuuri~” he calls out, sing-song. “Are you ready to go?” He pauses, a confused frown forming on his face when he sees Yuuri is sitting on the bench, still in his training clothes. “You haven’t changed yet?”

“Ah, sorry!” Yuuri crumples the letter and shoves it into the bottom of his duffel bag before Viktor can notice. There’s no reason to trouble Viktor about something that’s probably just some childish prank anyway. “I got distracted by something, but I’m getting ready now. Do you know what you want to do for dinner by the way?”

Viktor takes the opportunity to launch into a very excited spiel about a new restaurant he wants to try on their way home. Yuuri allows himself to get lost in the lull of Viktor’s voice, letter soon all but forgotten.

\---

Until another one shows up, a day later.

It’s the same paper, same style, same threatening words.

The fact that it’s been left in Yuuri’s locker twice now cements his suspicions that it’s one of his fellow rink mates. It has to be; while the security at the rink isn’t as tight as say, an official ISU event, it seems unlikely that just anyone can walk in off the street.

The thought of it being someone he’s actually interacted face to face with is depressing. He knows it frustrates Viktor to no end when Yuuri shuts down and closes himself off to others, so Yuuri has been making a concentrated effort to break out of his shell more. He’s made a few friendly acquaintances here and there already over the two weeks he’s been here, not including the weird quasi-friendship he already has established with Yuri. Yuuri had thought he’s been doing rather okay on the social front, but apparently he can’t please everyone. Not that it's ever bothered him that much before, but to know someone he's spoken to, someone he's shared the rink with, has so much dislike towards him...

Now, whenever he’s on the ice, he can’t shake the feeling of eyes boring holes into the back of his skull.

\---

The rate of which he receives the letters increases in rapid succession not long after, to the point where he is getting at least one a day if not more.

The message contained within them shifts like a coiling snake, transforming into insults:

> **You're such a pathetic loser.**

> **How could someone like you break Viktor’s record?**

> **You don't belong here.**

And threats:

> **Soon people will know you for the cheater you are.**

> **Watch your back.**

> **If you don't quit now, you'll regret it.**

Some of them are even in Russian, which means Yuuri is forced to crack the contempt for him locked away in Cyrillic.

There's no way he can ask Viktor to translate though; the thought of such spite being read to him in Viktor’s heavily accented English is more than Yuuri can bear.

So he makes the mistake of asking Yuri once. And only once, because the way Yuri's eyes bug out of his head as he spits out the water he has been gulping down is more than a little unnerving. Whatever Yuuri’s repeated in is mangled attempt at Russian must really be that bad.

“What the fuck, Katsudon,” Yuri growls before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Where the hell did you hear _that_ from?”

“Um,” Yuuri says, mind instantly backpedaling. He gives a shrug he hopes comes off as nonchalant and offers, “I heard it somewhere...on TV I think?”

Yuri's eyes narrow. “What sort of shows is Viktor letting you watch?”

Yuuri doesn't answer. Instead he offers a mumbled excuse about needing to get back to practice and then scurries away.

He looks it up for himself on his phone later. While it’s a garbled mess thanks to the limits of technology, he gleans enough meaning from it for his heart to clench like a vice in his chest.

\---

Yuuri switches his locker location three times--which slows down the flow of letters but never fully stops them--before he figures that’s there’s no point. Somehow they always manage to track him down in the end, no matter what he does. 

He still has yet to tell anyone about the letters and doesn’t plan on doing so any time soon. It's just words after all; colorfully printed poison pasted to paper, but words nevertheless. It's the fault of his own mental weakness that he's not immune to them.

\---

Despite his best efforts, the letters begin to chip away and erode the confidence he’s worked so hard to build up over the past year, little by little.

Whenever he finds himself once again overthinking and flubbing his jumps more often, even the simpler ones, he hears the letters’ taunting words, going on and on about how he’s less than a mediocre skater. They snidely comment on his weight fluctuations when he can barely choke down the protein bar and bottle of water that constitutes as his midday meal. When they insinuate that Viktor will grow bored of him eventually, as ridiculous as the thought is, for a brief, panic-stricken second Yuuri actually _believes_ it.

He knows he should ignore them, that none of what they say is true. They're the ramblings of a hateful, envious coward who doesn't even have the guts to say such horrendous things to his face. Yuuri knows that. He knows that.

 _And yet…_ a small, scared voice inside him says, a whisper at first but has been steadily growing into a strangled scream, _And yet…_

\---

Viktor notices the change in Yuuri's demeanor almost instantaneously. Of course he does; he’s learned to recognize Yuuri’s moods probably better than Yuuri does himself.

“You’ve been distant lately, Yuuri,” Viktor says across the table during dinner one evening. His voice is deliberately soft, slow, as if he’s attempting to coax an injured animal out of hiding. “Is something bothering you?”

The spoonful of schav Yuuri has just slurped turns rancid inside in his mouth. He pushes the rest of the soup away, suddenly not hungry. “Not really.”

“ _Yuuri_.” And there it is, that familiar, gentle but stern tone Viktor uses when he knows Yuuri is hiding something. “What is it? Do you want to talk about it?”

It’s poised as a question, but Yuuri knows it’s anything but. Viktor is tenacious like that; never forcing anything out of Yuuri, but is willing to wait as long as it takes before Yuuri succumbs and comes clean.

Yuuri opens his mouth, teetering on the edge of telling Viktor everything. But then phantom images of the letters swirl in front of his vision, curling their tails tight around his throat as they whisper, _‘You’ll just be a burden to him.’_

Viktor has already done so much for Yuuri, from opening up his home to arranging their practice at the St. Petersburg rink thanks to the unorthodox nature of their situation. He doesn’t need to be troubled by some childish hazing that Yuuri can handle on his own.

“It’s nothing,” Yuuri says, somehow, around the truth lodged in his throat. “Just having a harder time adjusting to the move than I thought I would, I guess.”

Viktor hums in understanding. “Ah. You’re homesick, then?”

That’s not it at all. Although Yuuri always loves returning to Yuutopia and seeing his friends and family, after years of travel he's used to being away from the onsen, secure in the knowledge that it'll be there whenever he goes back. But he recognizes the escape exit he’s been given and rushes towards it desperately. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Well,” Viktor says and taps a finger against his chin in thought. “That won’t do at all. How about a mini trip to Hasetsu? We have enough time that we can spend a week there and do our training at the Ice Castle.”

Every fiber in Yuuri’s being is screaming ‘yes’ at the prospect. His nerves are practically jumping underneath his skin at the chance to get away from it all, thrumming with a silent chorus of _no more letters, no more letters, no more--_

But he can’t. He can’t, because it would be like putting a bandage on a gaping wound only to rip it off later. It’s a temporary fix that won’t--can’t--solve anything in the long run. He can’t even begin to imagine how the sender of the letters will respond if Yuuri is so greedy to steal away Russia’s prodigal son from their ice for his own desires yet again, even it’s for a short amount of time. They’ll hate Yuuri even more than they do already, if that’s even possible. There was once a time where he entertained the idea, even relished in it as long as it meant he could prove his love for Viktor; if staying by Viktor’s side forever requires Yuuri to become the most hated man in the world, he’ll do it in a heartbeat. But while Viktor's worth anything Yuuri's anonymous antagonists want to throw at him (and then some), he also doesn't want provoke them any further than necessary either.

Plus, it’s not fair to Viktor to disrupt the routine they’ve fallen into since the move. Now they’re both training, and while Yuuri knows Viktor can train at Ice Castle easily, it would be without a coach. True, Yakov might just be a formality at this point, considering that Viktor is...Viktor. But that’s not up to Yuuri to decide. He doesn’t have that right.

“Um, no, that’s okay,” Yuuri says. He rips up his paper napkin and rolls it into tiny balls between his fingers, giving his hands something to do because he won’t be able to stop them from fidgeting otherwise. “I’ll be fine. Just need some time.”

“Oh.” For a moment Viktor looks crestfallen, and Yuuri doesn’t understand why. Was Viktor looking forward to going back to Hasetsu with him and he’s just now blown it? Before Yuuri can press it, however, the hurt in Viktor’s expression is replaced with a supportive smile, albeit pinched. “Well, if there’s anything I can do to help, tell me.”

“Okay.” Yuuri forces a nod. “I will.”

(He doesn’t.)

\---

When Yuuri starts coming to practice in the early morning, way before the rink’s normal hours, no one is more surprised than himself. There’s a reason Viktor affectionately refers to him as ‘Sleeping Beauty.’

But if Yuuri comes in early, that means he’ll be alone on the ice, away from any invisible, judgmental stares. And that more than outweighs the need for a few more hours of sleep.

Viktor offers to join him the first time, ignoring the fact it would throw off his own very busy schedule for the rest of the day if he did. He doesn’t press it though when Yuuri insists that no, it’s okay; Viktor no doubt remembers how Yuuri would steal away to Ice Castle whenever he needed to release some steam.

So this morning, before the crack of dawn, with his phone alarm blaring in his ears, Yuuri had begrudgingly untangled his limbs from Viktor’s--the man clings like a touch-starved octopus, more so when he sleeps--and got ready for the day. When he looked back to see Viktor had curled around a pillow in his absence, it took all of Yuuri’s willpower to not crawl back under the covers and just go to practice at the normal time, letters be damned.

It’s slightly worth it when he arrives at the rink and sees it’s empty, just like he hoped. He knows he should work on his routines since he’s been struggling with them all week thanks to his mind being all over the place lately. But as soon as he steps out onto the ice, he finds himself swirling around idly, like he always does whenever his anxiety becomes this overwhelming.

No matter what, Yuuri will always have a place on the ice. He’s been on it before Viktor swooped into his life, and he’ll still be here even if...if it ever gets to a point where Viktor _isn’t_. While Yuuri considered giving up skating professionally during the weakest moments of his life, he’ll never be able to give up this. There’s something about the cool, controlled chill of the rink, the sound of blades scraping and slicing through the crystalline surface, the urge to let his body glide with limited friction to hold him back.

The ice is calm, comforting. On it Yuuri is free to let go, forgetting the outside world for a little while. The letters, his routines, everything; right now, only the ice and himself exist, an extension of one another.

Maybe it’s this trance that’s overtaken him that causes him to miss the gouge on the ice before his skate catches on it, what delays his reaction time so he can’t correct his core balance before it’s too late. Instead he’s falling, _falling_ , and although he knows it’s a bad idea as he’s doing it, he instinctively put his hands out in front of him to brace for impact.

The thud of his body slamming into the ice echoes mockingly throughout the empty rink.

He doesn't move to get up right away, still reeling from the shock, from the unfairness of it all. By the time he does start to shift, the ice has already soaked through his clothes, the cold seeping in through his skin and into his bones.

When he goes to push himself upright, a spike of pain shoots up his right wrist so sharply that he has to bite back a yelp. With ginger, tentative fingers he assesses the damage; he can still move it, stiffly, so he thinks it's not broken at least. It's just sore, with even the act of lowering it by his sides sending a fresh wave of agony through his arm.

He's lucky though. He knows it could've been worse. He's taken more spills in his lifetime than he can count, but usually from failed jumps where he can roll with it to lessen the impact. Not from marks on the ice he can't prepare for.

Speaking of which…

Now that he's actually looking at the spot that tripped him, he doesn't know how he's missed the mini-chasm running through the ice. He thought the ice was cleaned dutifully so it could be fresh and pristine first thing in the morning. So how has the Zamboni missed this?

Unless...unless…

No, no, he’s being paranoid. It doesn't matter that chunk missing looks like it was carved out by chisel rather than a skate blade, or that it’s on the side he prefers to skate on because like most athletes he's a creature of habit and superstition.

It doesn't matter.

\---

“Yuuri! You need to put that arm out straighter--no, not like that! You're still too stiff!”

Keeping with the current running theme of his fucking life, Yuuri doesn't tell anyone about the fall. He does tell rink management about the crack however, only because someone else could get seriously hurt on it. When the maintenance worker lets out a stream of Russian cursing and rushes to correct the problem, Yuuri is a little relieved. See, it was just an accident, an oversight; it could've happened to anyone. It didn't mean it was meant for him, stop being paranoid, _stop being paranoid_.

It doesn't make his wrist hurt any less though. It won’t stop throbbing like a war drum as Viktor runs him through the step routine for his Eros program. Yuuri didn't have time to wrap or ice it this morning before Viktor arrived for practice and he's paying dearly for it now.

They’re not even attempting anything that’s difficult; the dancing component of skating has always been Yuuri’s forte, the thing he normally excels at. The silver medal he won at Barcelona can attest to that, as well as the gold he secured at the Japanese Nationals afterwards and again later at Four Continents. But every time he moves his injured wrist, the radiating pain jars him from what image he’s supposed to be presenting, leaving his movements off-balance and uncoordinated. He knows he’s supposed to be in tune with the music being broadcasted over the speakers, but he can’t hear it well enough over the pounding in his ears.

“Yuuri, stop!”

At the interruption, Yuuri nearly falls again but manages to catch himself this time. It takes a half-second for him to realize that the music is off, Viktor’s hand still pressed against the pause button of the stereo remote. His other hand is on his hip, the stance he usually takes when he’s about to launch into a lecture. He opens his mouth, but then pauses before waving Yuuri over to the edge of the rink. “Come here.”

Yuuri complies, almost wishing Viktor would give him a lecture instead of the sad, frustrated smile he has now. “I can get it, Viktor,” he argues, stubborn as ever. “Restart the music and I--”

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, cutting through Yuuri’s babbling in his calm, collected tone. It’s almost tinged with fondness, but that can’t be right, because why would Viktor be fond of him during a moment like this? “What has gotten into you lately?”

He doesn’t say, _‘You’re better than this,’_ but he doesn’t have to; Yuuri hears it anyway.

The last person in the world who deserves his anger right now is Viktor. But it’s been building up inside Yuuri these past few weeks and it needs an outlet before he self-combusts. “I said I'll get it!” He snaps, turning before he can focus too much on the surprised hurt flooding Viktor’s widened eyes. “Just let me do it again!”

“Yuuri, wait--”

Viktor reaches out to grab Yuuri back, an innocuous action by itself. Except he does it by hooking his fingers around Yuuri's right wrist--because of course it would be that one, because the universe has been making it pretty clear lately that it _hates_ him--and Yuuri can’t clamp down on the sob that rips itself from deep within his lungs.

Viktor looks like he’s about to cry out himself. “What--” he starts. But he doesn’t finish voicing his question. Instead his fingers, still hooked around Yuuri’s wrist albeit much looser, lower themselves to tug down on Yuuri’s sleeve so tenderly it hurts.

Yuuri lets out a hiss, both at the friction of fabric against his wrist and the sight of the injured appendage itself. He had known it would be bad, but he hadn’t realized the full extent of it until he sees the angry red swelling, the skin mottled with the early signs of bruising. His glove is carefully peeled off to reveal more of the same winding its way up to the side of his pinky.

But the worst part is Viktor. Viktor, who is staring at Yuuri’s wrist with a piercing intensity, his mouth lowered into a frown. He still hasn't said anything else, and the drawn out silence between them is making Yuuri nervous.

“I fell,” Yuuri admits, because there's no point in hiding the truth that's right in front of their faces. He doesn't need to go into full details, though. “Earlier this morning, I mean.”

That seems to snap Viktor to action. “Yuuri,” he says, firmly, but with a hint of a whine underneath. “This is why I offered to go with you before. You shouldn't be practicing with no one around.”

Yuuri huffs out a bitter laugh. “It's not like it would've made a difference if you were here or not. I fall all the time, remember?”

There's that infamous Nikiforov pout, the one that's almost impossible to resist. “You should've told me about this.”

Viktor’s right, of course. Yuuri knows he's right. But Yuuri is also as hard-headed as a mule. “I didn't think it was that bad, really.”

“It doesn't matter,” Viktor says, curt. He's in full-on coach mode now, which is something Yuuri is used to; something he's comfortable with and can handle. “As your coach, I have the right to know if you're injured.”

“As my coach,” Yuuri echoes. He tries not to overthink it, but fails. _As my coach… just as my coach… only as my coach…_

“Mhmm,” Viktor hums in agreement. If he's aware of Yuuri’s current inner turmoil, he doesn't mention it. “But as your fiancé--” he lowers his mouth to Yuuri’s wrist, lips barely brushing at the skin “--I have the right to worry about you, too.”

Warmth blooms inside Yuuri’s chest and curls up into his cheeks. He wants to argue that Viktor shouldn't have to worry about him--he doesn't _want_ Viktor to have to worry about him--but this feeling is actually kind of nice.

...Up to the point where the moment is ruined not a few seconds later when Viktor says, “I want you to take the next few days off.”

“What?” Yuuri finally relieves himself of Viktor's grasp. The ache in his wrist flares anew without the compression of fingers supporting it. “But I can skate and just not use it--”

“Obviously you can't going by the performance you just gave me,” Viktor says. He raises an eyebrow that dares Yuuri to counter the statement. “You'll be allowed back on the ice once you're in perfect health again,” he adds, his words mirroring the ultimatum he gave back when they first started training together in Hasetsu. “You need to get that wrist checked out first and at least get some ice on it.”

“Ice is what caused this mess in the first place,” Yuuri mutters, unable to keep his snark in check.

“Maybe~” Viktor says, chuckling softly. He then reaches up to stroke a thumbpad across the dark circles under Yuuri’s eyes. “You still need to learn to take better care of yourself, _solnyshko_. Don't think I haven't noticed how tired you've been lately.”

 _I wish you would talk to me,_ Viktor's gaze pleads. _Please let me help you._

But all Yuuri can focus on is ‘noticed how tired you’ve been’ and he freezes. If Viktor's noticed his fatigue, what about the others? Have the letters?

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri blinks and realizes that Viktor’s eyes are still locked on him. The worry there that had been enjoyable not that long ago has become stifling now.

“I’ll be going then,” he blurts out, more willing to fall back on old avoidance techniques rather than dealing with the situation head-on.

“...Ah!” Viktor looks surprised, as if he had been expecting more an argument from Yuuri. “I’ll go with you--”

“No!” Yuuri shouts and then flinches at his own raised voice. He doesn't want Viktor to skip out on his practice--it's bad enough that already one of them will be out of commission for a bit, especially with Worlds coming up so fast--but he didn't mean to be so forceful about it. “No,” he repeats, softer this time. “It's okay, you don't have to; I'll go and just see you back at home after you’re done with practice.”

For a second Viktor looks like he's about to protest, but then he sighs, the defeat in his words weighing heavily on Yuuri’s shoulders. “Okay. At least me know when you get back safely. And call me if you need anything.” He gives Yuuri’s cheek one more stroke, his voice quieting. “Try to focus on getting better, Yuuri.”

Oh, how Yuuri wishes it was that simple.

\---

It’s a moderate sprain according to the medical crew stationed at the rink. The staff member who looks Yuuri over is certain he’ll make a full recovery before the end of the week. In the meantime, he’s instructed how to wrap the wrist, keep it elevated, and how and when to ice it. But this isn’t his first injury--he’s heard this lecture before--so he just nods along, not paying any real attention.

He’s still beyond frustrated at being temporarily sidelined. He knows Viktor has a point; Yuuri had been floundering on the ice through even a simple step sequence. How could he think he’d be able keep his head on straight through complex jumps?

But it tears him up inside that with everything that’s been going on, the ice has turned against him too.

He ducks his head as he passes some of his rink mates on the way to the locker room, instinct telling him to not make eye contact and instigate conversation. There’s someone laughing out of view to his left, and Yuuri feels his ears burn as he tries not to imagine it’s being directed at him. Luckily, the locker room is empty, which means no one can be privy to him slinking off early for the day, tail between his legs.

He regrets it when he yanks the door of his locker open and a letter comes fluttering out. It’s a common sight nowadays; the letters have become something akin to a second shadow, always attached at his heels and looming large behind him whenever they're exposed to the light.

> **Don’t think you’re so lucky. It won’t just be your wrist next time.**

Yuuri stares down at the words, handwritten in messy chicken scratch this time, as if the sender didn’t want to waste any second delivering the deepest possible attack they could to Yuuri’s already fraying nerves.

The letter is balled up in a shaking fist while Yuuri silently screams.

\---

“Viktor,” Yuuri groans. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“Hmm?” Viktor responds from the other side of the couch where he’s sitting across from Yuuri. His phone is in his hand, a coy smile dancing across his features. “What is it that I have or have not done?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” Yuuri gestures towards his own phone, the Instagram app loaded on its screen. “You posted about my wrist.”

“Isn't that okay?” Viktor asks, his smile faltering slightly. When it comes to the skating world and the persona he presents to the public, he usually oozes self-confidence by the bucket-loads out of every pore of his being. But when it comes to Yuuri, he tends to be more cautious, willing to listen if he needs to change tactics. It makes him see more real, more human, much more than the idol Yuuri grew up admiring.

“People were worried, so I wanted to show that you were being taken care of,” Viktor continues, placing down his phone in favor of picking up one of Yuuri’s feet into his lap. He begins to massage it automatically, long since learned what Yuuri likes, his thumb digging into the arch with the right amount of pressure. “And so they could send you well-wishes.”

It's hard for Yuuri to argue, especially when Viktor is acting so sweet. “It’s embarrassing though,” he mumbles, slouching down against the corner of the couch.

Viktor laughs, eyes twinkling happily. “No, it’s adorable~”

Sighing, Yuuri looks down at the picture in question again. Viktor must have snapped it when he came back from practice and found Yuuri passed out on the couch. In the image, Yuuri’s hair is disheveled, his glasses are pushed up at an awkward angle, and a melting bag of frozen peas is slipping halfway off his injured wrist.

The caption below it reads: _Taking care of my **@y_katsuki** for the next couple of days while he rests his wrist! Please wish him a speedy recovery everyone! *\\( ^ ♡ ^ )/* _

Scrolling through the comments, Yuuri braces himself to see any sign of negativity hidden there. But whether it’s Yuri sending his thoughts in his usual prickly way (‘ _Tell Katsudon I won’t forgive him if he’s not 100% better at Worlds when I kick his ass.’_ ), Chris making a lewd suggestion about Viktor playing nurse and wearing a candy-striper uniform that makes Yuuri’s face flush bright red especially when he sees that Viktor’s liked it, or the outpouring of fans voicing their desires to see Yuuri healed and back on the ice soon, all Yuuri finds are people expressing some sort of thoughtful concern.

Over him.

After weeks of having venom spat in his direction--the letter from earlier particularly in the forefront of his mind--to read such kind words is an overwhelming breath of fresh air. Burning hot tears prickle in the corner of his eyes and he blinks them away as fast as he can before they fall.

But not quickly enough. “Yuuri, what’s wrong?” Viktor asks. His voice is laced with a concern that has been present much too often recently.

“It’s stupid, I just…,” Yuuri mutters and then shakes his head. “...I was worried people were going to think I was weak for getting injured.”

“Oh, Yuuri…” Viktor shifts his position on the couch so he can pull Yuuri into his arms. It’s an awkward angle, but Yuuri is grateful for the chance to cling to the comfort of Viktor's embrace. “I’ve told you before that no one thinks you’re weak.”

 _Liar_ , a voice hisses in his mind. _You have no idea._

 _And whose fault is that?_ Another responds.

Yuuri knows the answer all too well.

\---

It’s only been one solitary day since he’s been barred from the ice, and yet Yuuri doesn’t know if he can take much more.

What he _does_ know is that he should be resting. After all, the sooner he takes care of himself and recovers means the sooner he can get back. But the competitive side of him is antsy, pacing around in his belly like a wild animal in too small of a cage, saying that there’s no time to relax with Worlds just around the corner. He wants to be skating, wants to be dancing, wants to be training, wants to be doing _something_ instead of sitting around the apartment like a lazy, useless lump.

He tries to find other ways to pass the time, he really does. But nothing holds any appeal. His Nintendo DS and game collection lay off to his side, abandoned for now, because it’s frustrating to play when he currently only has one usable hand. Television isn’t any better; he’s flipped through the channels countless times already before resigning to the fact that nothing interesting is on. It’s all in Russian anyway, which he could practice improving his skills from the basic conversation he’s learned thus far. But he can only cram so much about subjunctive clauses and verb tenses into his brain before it begins to feel like borsch-style mush.

Normally he can rely on Makkachin, who tends to have an exuberant amount of energy despite his old age. But after the fifth walk this morning, the poodle curled up on his dog bed and has been snoozing soundly ever since. It would be nice if Yuuri can do the same, if just to get the hours to push by faster, but he can’t. Every time he lies down and closes his eyes, his entire body pulses with a nervous energy which prevents anything but a fitful sleep.

He recognizes this restless feeling and hates it, knowing there's little that he can do to shake it off.

There’s been a few times where he’s been half-tempted to call Phichit. They had talked the night of Viktor’s Instagram post, and after Yuuri assured Phichit that _yes, the wrist is fine, it’s just a sprain really,_ they had fallen into their usual easy-going conversation. Yuuri didn’t realize how much he’s missed Phichit’s company until after they had hung up; there’s something about Phichit’s bubbly personality that never fails to brighten Yuuri’s mood.

But if he’s factored in the time zone difference correctly, Phichit should be attending his afternoon practice right about now. And while he’s said before that Yuuri can call him day or night, Yuuri doesn’t want to interrupt Phichit’s own preparations for his performance at Worlds.

So instead, Yuuri is mindlessly scrolling through Instagram, tamping down on the pang of envy in his gut when he sees everyone in his feed discussing skating in some form or another. It’s to the point where he’s about to beg Viktor to allow him back on the ice, even if it’s for something as basic as swizzles, _anything_ , when his phone alerts him of a text from an unknown number.

It’s probably a mistake. He's pretty private when it comes to handing out his number, but he’s had strangers accidentally contact him before thanks to a misdial on their part. It’s rare, but it happens.

The phone pings again and his curiosity gets the better of him.

**‘Иди́ отсюда́ на́ хуй, Япошка!’**

**‘Хуй с горы!’**

Oh.

While his Cyrillic is still on the shaky side, he recognizes those words in an instant. They’ve been shot in his direction way too many times before.

His fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure how to respond. No, no, he shouldn’t respond at all. What he should do is just block the number and be done with it. But this is the first direct contact he’s had with the person behind the letters, and while he doubts he’s going to get a straight answer, he types the question anyway:

**‘Who is this?’**

That seems to open the floodgates; the texts come in a flurry after that, one after another, his phone vibrating out of his hands from the force of it all.

**‘You fucking loser I hope you fucking cried’**

**‘Еб твою мать’**

**‘Я, бля, зна́ю где ты живёшь’**

About five more texts show up before Yuuri can manage to block the number. He sits there for a minute, struggling to process what’s just happened, and then he switches the phone off as well, to be safe. Even if he feels anything but.

\---

“Is something wrong with your phone?” Viktor asks in lieu of greeting when he returns to the apartment later that evening. A dusting of light snow resides on the shoulders of his coat before he hangs it up on the rack by the door, and when he runs a hand through his damp hair, droplets of freezing water spray everywhere. “I tried calling it earlier, but it kept going to voicemail.”

Yuuri raises his head from the couch and rubs his eyes. He must've fallen asleep at one point after all, either out of fatigue or boredom, or both. He reaches for his phone, not understanding Viktor’s question for a moment before he remembers. "Oh, I forgot I had turned it off, sorry." He switches it back on now, holding his breath as he waits for it to load, and then lets out a sigh of relief. Besides a handful of missed calls and texts from Viktor, no one else has tried contacting him. No more anonymous messages, for now at least.

He manages to delete the earlier texts from the unknown number just before Viktor leans over the armrest of the couch and wrap his arms around Yuuri. “Okay. I was calling to see if you wanted to get together on my lunch break.” Viktor offers a sympathetic smile. “I figured you must’ve been pretty bored, cooped up in here all day.”

The weight of Viktor's words hits Yuuri squarely in the chest. He's had a chance to escape and he's _missed_ it. Instead, he's spent the afternoon curled up under a blanket, torn between being furious at the person who has been tormenting him and at himself for letting it continue for this long.

Not for the first time, Yuuri thinks he should tell Viktor the truth. It's right there on the tip of his tongue, ready to bounce off it at any second now. It's not like Viktor doesn't already suspect something is going on, either. He's constantly checking in on Yuuri lately, more so than usual, the concern never really leaving his eyes.

But it feels like this whole situation has been rolling in motion for a while now. It's a pebble that's grown into a boulder as it goes faster and faster downhill; any attempts to stop it now is going to cause some sort of pain in the process. How can Yuuri just blurt out, _'Hey by the way, someone has been sending threatening messages to me for weeks but I never told you because...'_

Because what? He really doesn’t have an answer.

It's not that he doesn't trust Viktor; Yuuri trusts him with his life. He trusts him with their skating, their relationship, everything. He should be able to trust him with this.

So why doesn't he say anything?

"Yuuri?" A hand waves in front of his face. "Did you hear me?"

“Huh?” Yuuri blinks. “What?”

Viktor shakes his head, laughing fondly at Yuuri’s obvious confusion. “I said I have a half day schedule tomorrow, so we can spend the afternoon together if you’d like. But for right now, let’s focus on making something for dinner, hmm?”

The mention of food makes Yuuri’s stomach groan painfully. Old habits die hard, especially the unhealthy ones, and while the various snack foods he stress-binged on earlier aren’t enough to throw his diet plan off, the shame of their wrappers buried deep down in the trash still burns.

More importantly, he doesn’t want to let Viktor go yet. Somehow he’s lived without Viktor’s touch for twenty plus years, but now just one day without it leaves Yuuri desperate for it, even more so thanks to recent events.

“Not yet,” he murmurs when Viktor moves to stand up straight. Yuuri grabs Viktor’s arm, a bold move he wouldn’t have even thought about doing a year ago, and tugs him towards the couch. “Stay with me a little bit longer.”

Viktor’s face lights up and then softens as he nods. “Okay,” he says and slides onto the couch next to Yuuri. There’s not much room, so their bodies have to slot into one another, with Viktor being careful not to jostle Yuuri’s injured arm. One of Viktor’s hands wraps protectively around Yuuri’s head, pulling him close as gloved fingers card through his hair.

“...You know I’m here whenever you need me,” Yuuri hears Viktor whisper, feels the vibration of the words through the closeness of their bodies, “right, Yuuri?”

Yuuri doesn’t respond. Instead he just buries his face into the warm safety of Viktor’s chest.

\---

When Yuuri returns to the rink four days later, his wrist a fading yellow but otherwise back to normal, of course there are letters in his locker. They’re all stacked up in a pile, waiting for him, like a grotesque sort of ‘welcome back’ present.

But that’s not the pressing issue right now. The problem is, Viktor actually _sees_ one of them.

“Oh, what’s this?” Viktor asks, picking up one of the letters that must’ve slipped out while Yuuri changes for practice. A practice that Viktor has deliberately scheduled so they’re on the ice together from now on. 

Shit, shit, _shit_. Yuuri lunges for the letter, snatching it out from Viktor’s unsuspecting hands, and then shoves it into his locker with a slam of the door. That was way too close for comfort.

Yuuri wants the truth to come out, really he does, but not like this. He hasn’t prepared himself for it yet, for what he’s going to say, how he’s going to explain. Sure, he’s gone over different scenarios many times in his head already; best case is that Viktor will understand the secrecy and somehow the letters will stop and everything will go back to being fine.

As for the worst case? ...Yuuri doesn’t want to think about it.

But if Viktor wasn’t suspicious before, he’s definitely going to be now. Yuuri knows if he looks him in the eyes, Viktor’s going to--

Wait, something’s not right.

Viktor is smiling at him. Actually _smiling_ at him. With a wide, bright grin, looking every bit the part of the cat who’s caught the canary and drank all the cream.

“Yuuuuuri~!” And suddenly Viktor springs on him, nuzzling his cheek. “Are you getting fan-mail? That’s so cute! You shouldn’t be embarrassed by it!”

Fan-mail. Viktor thinks Yuuri is getting _fan-mail_.

The idea is so ridiculous, so inherently _wrong_ , that Yuuri can barely hold back the strained laughter that leaks out of him. “No, that’s not--”

“Just be careful, okay?” Viktor’s tone is light-hearted, but there’s a tinge of something more serious lurking underneath that Yuuri can’t quite put his finger on. “I’d hate for someone to steal you away from me~”

“That’ll never happen,” Yuuri says with such a vehement force that he shocks himself. Judging by the faint flush of surprise on Viktor's face, he’s not the only one. “I won’t let it.”

It’s something Yuuri will remain confident no one can take from him, letters or not.

\---

Time passes quickly after that.

It feels like Yuuri has rested his eyes for a split second, only to open them and find himself standing at the rink of Worlds. His wrist has made a full recovery, and despite the setback it caused, he feels confident in his skating, in his program, and in himself.

He’s currently in second place, right behind Viktor. The score Yuuri received in his short program was impressive; a new personal best. But it’s not enough.

His fingers are interlocked with Viktor’s as they wait for Yuuri’s name to be announced. Yuuri gives them a squeeze and leans forward so his forehead is pressing against Viktor’s, neither of them able to look away.

“Viktor, I want you to watch me,” Yuuri says lowly. “Watch me win gold for you.”

“Of course I will,” Viktor says, returning the squeeze. “I’m always watching.”

Satisfied, Yuuri relinquishes his grip to skate to the center of the ice, waiting for his musical cue. He and Viktor have spent nearly a year perfecting this routine, getting everything right down to the minute detail. Even with self-doubt still creeping around the corners of his mind, Yuuri has faith he can win this. This will be his first Worlds win of many more to come.

The music starts, and with it his movements are precise, calculated, but never come off as forcefully rehearsed. He is the epitome of grace embodied in a pair of skates. His body flows into his first jump combination: quadruple toe loop, triple toe loop. Then quadruple salchow, triple flip, and then a triple axel. He nails every single one perfectly, a living textbook example.

The crowd roars their approval, banners with his name and Japanese flags waving wildly around the stadium. Every person there has their eyes locked on him, captivated, waiting with bated breath to see what he’s going to do next.

There’s no way he’s going to disappoint them.

Yuuri goes into his step routine next, bolstering his program components score. This has become second nature to him now, his limbs stretching out naturally, like the swaying branches of cherry blossom trees in a turbulent wind.

The next series of jumps goes as well as his first, as do the ones that follow. The entire stadium is vibrating with infectious energy, his music choice straining to be heard over all the cheering and stomping. He wants to remember this moment, relive at other competitions. He has one last quad to do, the most difficult one yet. Yet he is determined to make his total element score the highest anyone has ever seen. To start his path to being a figure skating world champion with a crushing bang.

He revs up, and instead of the quadruple flip that has become Viktor’s (and now his) staple, Yuuri does the impossible: a quadruple axel. He doesn’t have time to celebrate his flawless execution; he has to take his place in the center of the rink, posing with his hand towards Viktor--always Viktor--as the music draws to a close.

He doesn’t need to know his final score to know he’s won. He hears it in the deafening sound of the crowd, the satisfying tremble of exertion in his legs, the expression of pure joy, love, and adoration of Viktor’s face.

Yuuri’s done it. He’s _done_ it.

Flowers, plushies, and various other paraphernalia rain down from the stands, blanketing the ice. He pumps his fists in the air, triumphant, and wishes this moment of exhilaration can last forever. But wait, no, he needs to get to the kiss and cry, back to Viktor, back to Viktor’s arms and--

Something catches on his skate.

When he looks down, he sees the folded piece of paper wedged underneath the blade and his blood runs cold.

In an instant, everything else goes silent. All that’s left is the quiet rustling of paper, falling from the ceiling at an alarming rate.

He tries to rush towards the exit, but it’s no longer there. He can’t see the faces of the crowd, of the judges, of Viktor. Yuuri’s vision is blinded by swirls of white marked with colorful characters arranged in a nonsensical language he can’t begin to understand.

The rapidly forming pile of papers snake their way around his ankles and force him to fall to his hands and knees. Their sharp edges slice into his skin, leaving thousands of tiny stinging cuts in their wake. His mouth opens to shout for help, but all that comes out is a muffled choke as the papers try to shove themselves down his throat and tear at him from the inside.

And they won’t stop falling. Their combined weight presses on his back until he’s sandwiched between layers of paper, his entire body covered until there’s no sign of it left. He’s being buffeted by the waves of an inescapable sea, and he’s drowning in it, he’s drowning, he--

He can’t breathe. _He can’t breathe._

He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, _oh god._ He. Can’t. Breathe.

“--ri! Yuuri!”

Yuuri surges upwards, clawing at his chest in a desperate attempt to get air inside of it. At first all he sees is blackness, which is a vast improvement to that damned, blinding white.

There’s a hand rubbing at his back, a soft voice in his ear. “Shh, just focus on breathing like we’ve practiced, remember? In for one, two, three, and then slowly out...there we go…”

The realization hits him like a lightning bolt; it’s in the middle of the night and he’s in the apartment he shares with Viktor in St. Petersburg. It’s towards the end of February with Worlds still a few weeks away. And it’s Viktor at his side, warm from sleep, coaxing Yuuri through the worst panic attack he’s ever experienced.

“Viktor?” He croaks out through his staggered breathing, his accent butchering the name more than usual. He doesn’t trust his voice; doesn’t yet trust that he’s awake.

“Don’t force it,” Viktor murmurs drowsily as he continues his ministrations. “You had a nightmare, _dorogoi moy_.”

Hysteria bubbles out of Yuuri in the form of uneven hiccuping because he’s been dealing with a nightmare these past weeks. It’s a wonder he hasn’t had an attack over it sooner.

Somehow he manages to get his breathing back under control, though it’s more for Viktor’s sake than his own. Viktor’s hand is still rubbing circles on his back, but its movements are slowed; it’s obvious that Yuuri’s unconscious thrashing has woken Viktor from a deep sleep.

Guilt rises up within Yuuri, intertwining with the burning ache in his chest that the attack has left behind. It’s bad enough that the letters have done their best to disrupt every facet of his life; they don’t need to affect Viktor too.

“...Sorry,” Yuuri stammers out, voice hoarse. “I’m okay now. Go back to sleep.”

“Mm, only if you’re sure you’re okay,” Viktor murmurs, wrapping his arms so tightly around Yuuri that he can feel the rumble in Viktor’s chest. Viktor tugs Yuuri back down to the mattress and drapes the covers over the top of both of them with a comforting pat. “You get some sleep too. We’ll talk in the morning.”

\---

Viktor does ask about it over breakfast the next day. He’s made some of Yuuri’s favorites: steamed rice with miso, yakizakana, and tsukemono, having requested the recipes from Hiroko the last time they were in Hasetsu. It’s a cheap ploy to use Yuuri’s love of food to get him to open up, but Yuuri can tell Viktor is at his wit’s end, desperate to help.

Yuuri lies and says he doesn’t remember what the dream was about, when in reality it had been all he could think of, sleep eluding him for the rest of the night as he lay in bed, drenched in a cold sweat.

He ignores how Viktor doesn’t look convinced in the slightest.

\---

Then, just as sudden as the letters start, they stop.

Yuuri stares into the shadows of his locker. It’s the third day in a row where he comes back from practice to find it empty--with the exception of his personal belongings--and he doesn’t know what to think about it. It's not like he misses the letters, god no; even if he has finally learned not to bother reading what they say anymore, he’s still tired of having to constantly deal with them. But as fantastic as it would be if the sender just decided to give up after all this time, Yuuri doubts he has it that easy. And that thought has him a little on edge.

A foot slams into the lockers next to him, ripping him out his thoughts. “Oy, Katusdon, you listening to me?!”

Yuuri grasps at his shirt, trying to subdue the heart that’s about to pound right out of his chest. “...Oh, Yurio, it’s just you.” He breathes out a sigh of relief. “You scared me.”

“What do you mean, ‘it’s just you,’ huh?” Yuri scowls, lowering his foot and stepping right into Yuuri’s personal space. There’s a split second for Yuuri to mentally note how tall he’s been getting before he continues, “Are you deaf or something? I've been calling you.”

“Sorry, I had something on my mind,” Yuuri admits sheepishly. He closes the door to his locker before he gives Yuri his full attention. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Tch, whatever.” Yuri swivels to lean against the lockers, crossing his arms across his chest. “Where’s Viktor? Thought the old man doesn’t like to let you out of his sight these days.”

Yuuri flushes and rubs the back of his neck. Yuri's right; Viktor has been hovering around a lot as of late, which can be pretty embarrassing at times. The term ‘lovesick’ has been thrown in their direction more than once. “Yakov pulled him off to the side to talk about the last-minute changes to his program. We’re supposed to meet up and head home once he’s done.”

Yuri lets out a grunt of acknowledgement, which could mean, ‘I’m interested, go on’ or ‘Shut the fuck up already.’ It’s so hard to tell with him sometimes. “What’s up with you two anyway? He keeps looking at you like he’s lost his puppy and you look like one that’s been kicked.” He jerks a thumb in the direction of Yuuri’s right arm. “How’s your wrist?”

“Much better, thank you,” Yuuri says. He flexes and rotates his wrist to show that it’s completely healed. “You don’t have to worry.”

“I wasn’t worried, _idiot_ ,” Yuri growls, though it lacks most of the usual heat behind it. No matter how much he denies it, his concern is evident and frankly rather sweet. “I just don’t want that to be a reason for you to be crying like a baby when I wipe your ass on the ice.”

Yuuri grins and stands up straight, bolstered by a sudden confidence he hasn’t fully felt in weeks. “What makes you think I couldn’t beat you even if my wrist was still sprained?”

There’s a familiar, competitive glint in Yuri’s eye as he returns Yuuri’s grin. “You’re kidding me, right, or did you forget who won gold at the Grand Prix Final?”

“The same person who only got silver at Russian Nationals and Europeans, right?” Yuuri points out, his grin growing wider. It’s probably not fair to antagonize Yuri about it, considering it was Viktor who took gold at both of those events. The way Yuri flinches suggests that it’s still a sore subject.

“Anyway,” Yuuri continues and holds up two fingers, waggling them for emphasis, “that makes two of my gold to your one. Odds seem pretty good in my favor, don’t you think?”

“ _Fuck off._ ” Ah, there he is, the Russian Punk in full fighting form. Yuri pushes off the lockers and gets right back in Yuuri’s face, jabbing him squarely in the sternum. “If you think those piss-poor excuses for gold makes you so great, why don’t prove it? On the ice, right now.”

Yuuri checks his phone, finding no new messages. Viktor had suggested he’s going to be awhile--apparently Yakov’s really riled up over something or another--so there’s probably still time. “You’re on. Let me grab my skates and--”

“Yuri?”

Both of them simultaneously whirl their heads towards the interruption. “ _What_?!”

“I meant, Katsuki?” Yuuri recognizes the man now standing in the locker room as the maintenance worker he had informed about the crack on the ice before. “There’s a phone call in the front office for you.”

“I don’t know why everyone keeps calling _you_ ‘Yuri’ when I was here first. It’s annoying.” Yuri tilts his head towards the locker room exit. “Go on then. But if you’re not on the rink in the next twenty minutes, I’m saying you forfeited, got it?”

Yuuri nods absentmindedly, his thoughts more focused on why he’s receiving a call at the rink. Most of the time it’s to the phone still in his hand, or relayed to him from his family’s onsen. He does have the rink listed as a contact for sponsors and media inquiries though, as well as for emergencies--

Has something happened? Is everything okay? Is his family--

He mumbles a thank you to both Yuri and the staff member before he rushes out to the front office. The desk attendant who normally mans the whole thing is absent, most likely having stepped out on break. But Yuuri easily spots the phone with a blinking light indicating a call is on hold and he picks it up. “Hello, this is Katsuki!”

There’s no answer. Yuuri checks to make sure he did switch to the correct connection and tries again. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

A click, and then the line goes dead in his ear.

...Huh, that was...weird. He furrows his brow as he pulls the phone away and sets it back on the receiver. It’s not like he can call back whoever it was on the other end; if it was really that important, he hopes they’ll try dialing him back right away.

But as the seconds tick by and there’s no other call, he shrugs and labels it a lost cause. There’s something off-putting about the whole scenario that causes the hair on the back of his neck to stand up, but he can’t really point out why. He doesn’t really have the time either; already he’s used up five minutes of the allotted time he’s been given by Yuri, and Yuuri still needs to grab his gear and change back into his skates.

Returning to the locker room, he makes a beeline for his--

...Wait a minute. Hadn’t he closed the door to his locker before he left? He could’ve sworn he did while he was talking with Yuri, but now it’s cracked slightly ajar. Yuuri opens it, fearing the worst, but it looks like all his things are still there with nothing seeming to be out of place. 

That uneasy feeling from before worsens despite his best efforts to ignore it. Maybe he’s mistaken and hadn’t closed the locker all the way shut. Maybe paranoia is rearing its ugly head again and bringing along the feelings of self-doubt with it. Maybe the letters are still affecting him even in their absence.

No, it’s nothing. It's _nothing_.

He just has to keep telling himself that.

\---

When Yuuri finally makes his way rinkside, he has to push through the small crowd that has gathered. It doesn't take long to spot the reason why; not only is Yuri already on the ice, Viktor is as well. They're a sight to behold, demonstrating why they're considered the top stars of the Russian figure skating world. Of course there's going to be those who adore them at the rink.

It's not like Yuuri is upset they have fans; he considers himself to be one of them after all. Not just of Viktor, but Yuri as well, who, despite his bratty attitude, has worked hard to accomplish things as a teenager that Yuuri has yet to as an adult. They deserve to have accolades of praise heaped upon them, to have people stop and stare even when they're practicing basic moves like they're doing now.

It just drives the point forward that this is their turf. And no matter how long Yuuri lives here, he wonders if he'll ever shake the feeling of being an outsider encroaching on that. Even if he masters the Russian language, grows used to the long and severe winters, and assimilates himself completely in the culture, he doesn't know if it'll ever be enough.

Yuri spots him at the sidelines and sends a thin mist of ice into the air as he skirts to a stop. “Took you long enough, Katsudon. Was starting to think you weren't going to show up.”

Funny how Yuri’s goading is what grounds Yuuri back to reality. It reminds him that it doesn't matter if he’s in Japan, America, Russia, or anywhere else in the world, the ice is his home. There are people who want and support him there. He has to remember that.

He gives Yuri an apologetic smile and shakes his head. “I wouldn't miss this.” He places his bag down on a nearby bench and takes a seat next to it. “You'd never let me live it down if I did.”

Yuri snorts. “Damn right I wouldn't.”

“What's going on?” Viktor asks. He skates over and props his elbows on the rink barrier, batting his eyelashes dramatically in Yuuri’s direction. “Yuuuuuri, I thought you were done with practice for today. Did you miss me that much that you couldn't wait for me?”

“Ugh, don't be so gross, old man,” Yuri snarls. He gives a hard shove to Viktor, who just laughs in response. “This is a bet between me and Katsudon, once he hurries up and gets his skates back on.”

“I'm coming, I'm coming,” Yuuri grumbles halfheartedly. He pulls his skates from his bag, having decided to put them on by the rink to save him some time. Definitely not because the whole thing with the locker is still on the back of his mind.

After he laces the skates tightly, he goes to the rink entrance and removes his skate guards before gliding onto the ice. “You never said how we're going to do this by the way.”

“A friendly competition?” Viktor perks up. He taps a finger against his chin, a small, thoughtful smile forming. “I could always play judge--”

“ _No_!”

Viktor blinks at Yuuri and Yuri’s combined outburst and pouts. “Why not?”

“Why the fuck do you think? Katsudon could just sneeze and you'd probably think it's the best thing ever.”

“That was only one time! And to be fair, it was really cute--”

“How about one of us simply does a jump sequence and the other has to copy it?” Yuuri suggests, interrupting Viktor’s gushing over him before it gets too out of hand. He loves Viktor, he does, but if Viktor continues to wax poetically about him and all his little idiosyncrasies in Yuri’s vicinity, Yuuri is afraid Yuri is going to pop a blood vessel. And not necessarily one of his own.

There's a pause as Yuri seemingly contemplates the idea, and then he nods. “Fine, but I'm going first,” he says. “That way I can watch you choke on moves I can do in my sleep.”

“Yurio, don't--”

Yuuri puts a hand on Viktor's bicep and squeezes, cutting off his warning to Yuri. “I can defend myself, Viktor. Don't worry.” Yuri’s attitude is something he can handle easily now, letting it roll off him like a water on a duck’s back. It's a shame he hasn't yet been able to do the same thing when it comes to the letters, but he's getting there at least.

“Stop making puppy dog eyes at each other and watch already,” Yuri says. He skates to a clear patch of ice, gathering the proper momentum before he launches into a double-triple toe loop combination followed by a perfect quadruple salchow. “That easy enough for you?” He calls out, hands on hips. “Or do I need to show you again because you were too busy fawning over Viktor?”

It figures he would start out with a quadruple salchow. No doubt he remembers how Yuuri begged him to teach it and how difficult it had been for Yuuri to get down. But Yuuri's not the same level he was almost a year ago; he's not going to let himself be underestimated. Not anymore.

“I got it,” Yuuri says with a flash of a smirk. Already he’s planning ahead for his turn; he’ll do a quad flip, knowing full well that Yuri has yet to master that. In the back of his mind he knows he's playing dirty, but it’s drowned out by the overwhelming desire to prove himself, especially with Viktor (and the small crowd of rink mates, he realizes) watching.

As he moves into position though, his confidence starts to wane due to the slight, barely detectable wobble of his skates. He doesn't understand why, not when this is a rare instance where there's not even the smallest trace of anxiety about his skating within him. Yet he still feels shaky, like a newborn colt trying out its legs for the very first time.

Something is wrong. He knows his skates well enough, knows himself and his abilities, to know that something is _wrong_.

He doesn't know what it is though, and if he tries to back out now, Yuri will most likely chalk it up to him chickening out at the last second. More than that, it means Yuuri will lose the wager, and that drives him forward more than anything.

(Maybe he should've been using spite as a motivational tool all along.)

The landing of his toe loop combination is far from perfect; he can practically hear Yuri’s gloating now. The wobbling is worse from the force of the impact, and while Yuuri knows he really should stop and check his skates, his stubbornness won’t let him. He has to nail the quadruple salchow if he wants to salvage any part of this.

He does, mimicking Yuri’s execution exactly, perhaps even better. But his satisfaction is short-lived as soon as hears the loud _snap_ right after he lands, his ankles buckling underneath him. Once again he's falling, but this time he has the sense to twist his body in order to lessen the blow.

Unfortunately, it's not the ice he lands on.

The rink boards are closer than he previously realized and his face slams into them with a sickening crunch. Distantly he hears the gasps from the others, hears the shouts of his name, but it's okay, he's okay. It doesn't matter that pain is blossoming in red angry splotches across his face, that blood is already gushing down from his smashed nose and split lip. He can push himself back up, he can shake it off, he can skate, he can--

There's a hand on his shoulder preventing him from standing up straight to his feet. He tries to shrug it off but its grip just intensifies, and it takes him a second to realize there's a voice attached to it. “--stop, Yuuri, try not to move around too much!”

Yuuri blinks. And blinks again. His vision is hazy, unfocused, but he can at least make out Viktor's worry-stricken face hovering in his line of sight. “Viktor? I'm okay, I can still--”

“Holy _shit_ , Katsudon,” he hears Yuri interrupt from behind. His quiet, shaky voice sounds like nothing Yuuri has heard from him before. It's a little disturbing, and he wonders what kind of picture he’s presenting at the moment that makes Yuri let his usual guard down. “I can't tell if you're stupid, crazy, or a little bit of both for having the balls to go out with your skates in that condition.”

“My skates?” Yuuri echoes slowly and looks down at his feet.

Oh. _Oh_.

Well, that explains a lot.

“We saw the blade shoot off as soon as you landed,” Yuri continues, ignorant to the fact that Yuuri is currently having a difficult time grasping onto the context of his words. “We weren't close enough to stop you from eating the rink boards though. You know, when I told you to choke, I didn't think you’d really do it.”

“ _Yuri._ ” Viktor's tone is a thousand degrees colder than the ice underneath them. So much so that Yuuri starts to shiver. “Go find out what's taking the medical team so long to get here.”

Yuri goes off without any ounce of protest, which is really weird because when does he ever listen so faithfully to Viktor? Yuuri would comment on how surreal it seems to see him so obedient. But right now he can't stop shaking, the chattering of his teeth sending fresh waves of agony throughout his face.

He makes out what he thinks is Viktor swearing in Russian but he isn't sure. It's all becoming a big blur to him, though he's dimly aware of Viktor's jacket being draped across his shoulders, of being leaned forward on hands and knees so the blood doesn't run down the back of his throat, of him spitting some up and staining a dark pink smear on the ice. It takes all of the little self-control he has left not to gag at thick metallic taste on his tongue.

It hurts, fuck it _hurts_ , but not as much as it does to know that he failed. It was just a silly wager between friends that has no real bearing on his performance as a skater. But he still _failed_.

It feels like ages before the medical crew arrives, and it's shameful how much he has to lean on one of them to hobble off the ice and onto a bench. Although they're at least asking him questions in English, his jostled brain is scrambling in order to translate fast enough. The answers he stutters out must be enough though as they assess the damage, briefly blinding him as they shine a penlight in both of his eyes. Viktor's hand in his is the only support he can latch onto as they poke and prod at his obviously broken nose and dab a gauze pad at his mouth to stop the bleeding from his busted lip. The words ‘concussion’ and ‘hospital’ float through the forefront of his consciousness, but they only click in place once he sees a stretcher being wheeled out.

“N-no,” he stammers out with a spray of blood-tinged spittle. “No hospitals.”

Everyone else freezes in place, an awkward, wary silence settling over the scene. Viktor’s the one who first breaks it. “Yuuri,” he says, his voice soft in contrast to the harsh roaring in Yuuri's ears, “they say you have a mild concussion, but they just want to double-check--”

“No hospitals,” Yuuri repeats. He shakes his head for emphasis and immediately regrets the action, flinching at the new sharp stab of pain.

If it was Viktor or Yuri or anyone else in his position, he knows he would be a complete hypocrite and insist on them being taken to the hospital, even if he had to drag them there himself. But he can't stand the thought of being carried out of the rink with all those eyes on him, of being taken to a buzzing emergency room where everyone would be speaking over him in rapid-fire Russian. His anxiety flares up just thinking about it, and he locks Viktor's hand in a tight vice grip, hoping he understands.

Viktor presses his lips into a thin set line. His eyes never leave Yuuri's as he then exchanges a few words with the medical crew in Russian, which frustrates Yuuri to no end. He can tell they're talking about him, catching his name every now and then, and he wants to snap at them to stop before his traitorous mind can imagine what they're saying. He's well aware that he's messed up, that all of this is his fault. He doesn't need others confirming it like he's not even there. As a professional, he should have taken better care of his skates or this would've never happened--

His skates. _His skates._

Of course. It all makes sense now. There’s no reason why the blade had fallen off so easily, not when he had them tightened not that long ago. When he saw his locker door open earlier, he never stopped to think it was because _someone may have tampered with his things._

He could've been seriously injured, or worse. He might’ve broken his ankle, or been knocked unconscious, or--

He doesn't have the chance to dwell on it for long though, because suddenly Viktor has an arm wrapped around his upper torso and is carefully hoisting him to his feet, his broken skates swapped for his tennis shoes sometime in the chaos. “They said I can take you home,” Viktor explains, apparently sensing Yuuri’s confusion, “as long as I keep an eye on you and take you immediately to the hospital if your condition worsens.”

The way he stresses the last bit makes it clear that it’s not up for discussion. Yuuri can accept that as a compromise.

\---

Viktor winds up ordering a cab to take them back to their apartment. Yuuri is grateful for that, because while the walk from the rink isn't that far, he doesn't think he can make it in his current state. Plus, he doesn't want any passerby gawking at his bloodied appearance; the open staring by their rink mates as they left was bad enough, especially with the knowledge that one of them may have intended for something like this to happen.

The cab driver says nothing as the two of them slide into the backseat, probably knowing better than to ask questions about the ice pack Yuuri is cradling against his battered face. Knowing Viktor, there'll be a hefty tip at the end to guarantee the driver’s silence as well.

Speaking of Viktor, he hasn't once stopped touching Yuuri since they left. Whether it was his hand being an anchor to hold during the examination or his arm supporting Yuuri's weight as they walked, Viktor's touch has been always present, a beacon of comfort throughout the whole ordeal. At the moment, his fingers are back to being intertwined with Yuuri’s, but as soon he gives the address to the driver and they begin to move through traffic, his hand comes up to gently tug at the ice pack. “Here, let me see.”

Yuuri lets the ice pack drop and watches blue, piercing eyes roam over his face. He knows he looks horrible, like he got into a fistfight and lost. That's what it feels like at least; the entire bridge of his nose is burning with pain, the flames and smoke billowing out in the form of inflammation and early onset bruising. He can't talk or even breathe too much without the worry of cracking his swollen lip back open and adding to the dried clumps of blood already pulling at the thin, fragile skin.

After a moment, Viktor’s hand moves to cup the side of Yuuri’s cheek, his ministrations a lot more tender than the medical staff’s had been. “Well, you’re looking pretty worse for wear now. But don't worry. You'll be back to being my cute, tasty katsudon soon enough.”

He's trying to lighten the mood. Yuuri can tell, because Viktor is giving him a small smile. But it's that pinched, fake smile, reserved for press conferences and media appearances. It's the one that Viktor’s practiced out of necessity, the one that he tends to plaster on to hide his true emotions lurking in the waters underneath.

Yuuri doesn't want that smile directed towards him, not now. Not when he's told Viktor that all he needs is for Viktor to be himself. But he can't really expect Viktor to be honest with him when Yuuri hasn't exactly been giving the same courtesy lately.

“Try not to make a habit of it though, hmm?” Viktor exhales out a nervous laugh and then reaches up to push back some of the bangs out of Yuuri’s eyes. His fingers linger there more than necessary, their coolness a soothing balm against Yuuri's heated forehead. “That's twice now you've been rather rough on the face that I love. I don't think my heart can take much more.”

It takes a second for Yuuri to realize that Viktor is referring to the Chugoku, Shikoku, and Kyushu Championship, back in the early stages of their relationship. The nosebleed back then was barely a scratch compared to what’s happened today. On top of that, he had been able to finish skating then and win, too. He knows it wasn't Viktor's intent, but the similarity between the two is enough to make Yuuri fear he's taken a huge step backwards. He's making rookie mistakes, throwing away everything that Viktor’s taught him. What is the whole point of Viktor coaching him if he's just going to continue to fuck up like this?

No, no, it's not his fault. It's _not_. Someone did this to him. Someone wants him to leave. To fail. To hurt. To bleed. To possibly even _die_.

Is his desire to win, to stay by Viktor's side and eat katsudon with him forever, so selfish to warrant all of _this_?

What if it gets even worse? He's not going to give up so easily and whoever is behind this is probably starting to realize that. So what if next they attack him where it really cuts deep: his family, his friends, Viktor himself?

He doesn't realize he's crying until he feels something hot and wet splash against the back of hands which are gripping fistfuls of fabric from his sweatpants. At first he thinks it’s his nose or lip bleeding yet again, and for a brief, ridiculous moment he fears Viktor's going to have to pay the cab driver extra for a cleaning bill as well. But then his vision grows watery with the big, fat teardrops that continue to roll down his face in torrents. Now that they’ve started, he's unable to stop them. They're a release of the frustration he's been holding back for far, far too long.

Viktor’s made a conscious effort these past months to learn what to do in scenarios like this where Yuuri's anxieties well up to the surface. No longer is he that uneasy bystander back in the parking garage at the Cup of China, unsure of what to do. It's obvious he's still uncomfortable by the sight of Yuuri crying though, as evidenced by the slight tenseness of the arms that come around and wrap Yuuri in an almost crushing embrace.

“It’s okay, you'll get through this and be back on the ice before you know it,” Viktor murmurs into the shell of Yuuri's ear. It's not clear who he's trying to convince more. Yuuri wonders how it must've looked to Viktor to see Yuuri crash, how helpless he probably felt while the medical crew was swarming around. If their roles were reversed, Yuuri knows he would be a complete wreck if he were in Viktor’s shoes. So the fact that Viktor is so highly attuned with what Yuuri needs, showing steadfast belief in him like Yuuri’s asked, speaks incredible volumes. “Consider this a minor setback. Even the best of us have accidents sometimes--”

The words spill out of Yuuri’s mouth before he can stop them: “It wasn't.”

“Wasn't what?” Viktor asks. He pulls back his head so their gazes meet, his eyebrows raised, prompting Yuuri to continue. “Yuuri?”

Three words. Yuuri only has to say the three simple words: _wasn't an accident_. He opens his mouth, his lips already forming the shape of the ‘w’.

But nothing else comes.

“...My skates,” he says instead, trying a different approach. “I should've--” _known something like this was going to happen, been more careful, told you about the letters_ _“--_ kept better care of them.”

It's not the full story but it's not exactly a lie, either. If he hadn't left his skates unattended, if he hadn't been so stubborn...

“Ah, I guess that's true,” Viktor says while raking a hand through his hair. His honesty is as blunt as ever but so classically _him_ that it doesn't rub the wrong way, not like it used to. “But,” he adds after a beat, “I should shoulder some of the blame too. After all, as your coach, it's partially my responsibility that all your equipment is in proper order.”

The protest that Yuuri’s never held Celestino or any other coaches accountable for his personal belongings dissipates the moment Viktor intertwines Yuuri’s right hand with his own, their rings softly clinking together in the process. “You once asked me to look after you until you retire, remember? I plan to even after then,” Viktor says, his breath ghosting over Yuuri’s skin as he leans down to kiss at their knuckles. “But it looks like I haven't been doing that great of a job lately, so let me make it up to you.”

Something bursts inside Yuuri's chest, warm and bright like sparklers lit on a humid summer evening. This entire time, he's been so focused on dealing with everything by himself that he's forgotten he's no longer alone. Viktor's been by his side all along, kept within reach but never forced upon him. Even with all the secrecy, Viktor's been nothing but supportive in ways that Yuuri doesn't know if he truly deserves: the offer to visit Hasetsu, the combined practices, the constant check-ins. Yuuri’s been so hesitant of accepting the comfort that's been extended to him over and over again while simultaneously wanting it so bad that it aches.

 _Please,_ Yuuri thinks, mentally pleading with any deity out there willing to listen. He closes his eyes and allows himself to revel in the affection Viktor is pouring over him. _I don't care what happens to me as long as I can continue to have this._

But, if this ticking time bomb of a situation does explode soon--like Yuuri is afraid it just might--Viktor doesn't deserve to be hit by the blast just because he was too close to it in proximity.

The moment is interrupted when the cab comes to a stop and the driver announces the arrival at their apartment complex. Before Yuuri can shift his weight to move, Viktor automatically returns his arm to its previous position around Yuuri's torso, sliding both them and their bags out of the backseat. “Come on, let's get some rest. It's been a long day for the both of us,” Viktor says. His smile has turned into something more open, genuine. “I'll let Yakov know that we're taking tomorrow off, once we get inside and settled.”

For once, Yuuri doesn't argue.

\---

He can't sleep.

It doesn't make sense. The rush of adrenaline from earlier has run its course through his veins, his entire body sore and aching in its wake despite the pain relievers he's popped. His tears have dried up hours ago, leaving him like a towel that's been scrubbed, wrung out, and hung on a line to dry. He's drained in not only a physical sense, but mentally and emotionally too. By all rights, Yuuri should be _exhausted_.

And he is, god he is. His anxiety has quieted down from blaring klaxons to that buzzing fatigue that settles deep down into the very marrow of his bones. Every movement of his weary limbs is like he's underwater, floating yet sinking at the exact same time. He's just so damn tired. Not only from the crash at the rink today but everything that’s led up to its point so far.

And yet, he can't sleep.

He's thankful that at least Viktor doesn't have the same problem. He's curled up by Yuuri's side, the comforter draped over his body rising and falling with each of his slumbering breaths. His hand is still clasped around his phone which has a timer on the screen counting down to the next hour when he has to check on Yuuri per the medical team’s instructions. He had set it only after Yuuri managed to convince him that he needed his rest too and didn't have to spend the whole night keeping watch.

Yuuri smiles down at the sight, ignoring the uncomfortable twinge that comes from the pulling of the skin across his cracked lips. His mind might be racing too much with thoughts about everything that’s happened, but having Viktor so close by helps block them out, at least for a little bit. With soft, hesitant fingers, Yuuri reaches out and brushes some hair out of the way to reveal more of Viktor's face. Even while sleeping he's beautiful, otherworldly, yet preciously fragile. He's something, no, _someone_ Yuuri has to be strong for, someone he has to protect.

Viktor murmurs something incomprehensible in his sleep as Yuuri continues to trail his fingers down Viktor's face. He traces sleek eyebrows, a perfect nose, sharp cheekbones, pillowy-soft lips, a strong jawline. He passes over them once, and then repeats again, and again. He commits every one of them to memory as if this is the last time he’ll ever see them, the final wishes of a dying man.

Who knows, they very well could be.

That harrowing realization pops the protective bubble Viktor's presence has created. Yuuri draws his hand back quickly, as if burned, and then scolds himself for being melodramatic. But the truth is, he doesn’t know how far this thing will go and to what end. It’s spiraled entirely out of his control and there’s nothing he can do about it. While he knows in his heart someone tampered with his blades, he doesn’t have any viable proof; it could be easy to claim that they were loosened on their own from repeated use. A similar thing could be said for the gouge on the ice. The only physical evidence he has are the letters, and the majority of them he’s tossed out rather than hold on to the reminder of their cruel words.

He knows it’s ridiculous the moment he’s contemplating it, but what if he’s accused of making it all up in an exchange for attention? It wouldn’t be the first time something like it has happened in the athletic world, letting alone in the skating community. There are plenty of people out there who would rather judge him first and ask questions later, all for a chance at a slice of the drama. What matters most to him is that the ones important in his life believe his story, but standing by his side could mean their names being dragged through the mud in the process. Forget the possibility of his reputation being tarnished; what would happen to Viktor’s by proxy?

The sudden sound of the phone timer chiming catches Yuuri off-guard. He reaches over to turn it off so Viktor can get some more sleep, but as soon as he gets close, his hand is tugged down and placed against Viktor’s chest, Viktor’s own hand holding it in place right above his heart. Yuuri goes stock still, not wanting to move or say anything in case Viktor isn’t fully awake yet. Though when the minutes tick by and Viktor doesn't do anything else, Yuuri eventually squeaks out a quiet, “...Viktor?”

“Mmm,” comes the mumbled response. Viktor’s eyes open slowly, the irises a dull, hazy blue until he blinks a couple times to clear his vision. The moment they focus on Yuuri however, they light up like twin dancing flames that grow with warmth by the passing second. No matter how many times he sees it, Yuuri doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to Viktor--the Viktor Nikiforov, his childhood idol--unabashedly staring at him in such a way that causes him to shiver and grow flush all at once.

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor says. He rolls the letters over his tongue, making it sound like the name has always belonged there. That thought, plus the combination of his voice low and gravely from sleep, makes Yuuri's cheeks darken to an even deeper, rosier pink. “Did you get any sleep?”

“No,” Yuuri admits, too taken back to have the sense to say anything else. “But it's okay!” He adds once Viktor begins to frown. “I liked watching you.”

Wow, Yuuri didn't intend for that to sound as creepy as it does. “That is--” he sputters. “I mean--”

“No fair,” Viktor whines, soft and pitiful. His hand is still holding onto Yuuri's, but instead of letting it go, he uses it to bring Yuuri closer so they’re barely inches apart. “I'm the one that's always supposed to be watching you, _lyubimyy moy_ ,” he says. He brings his other hand up to caress Yuuri's cheek, being mindful of the bruising. “How are you feeling? It's about time for your check-up, right?”

The swelling and pain in Yuuri’s face has been downgraded to a slight but persistent ache, nothing he can't deal with it. His mind is a lot clearer as well, enough that he doesn't think Viktor needs to go through the series of questions for concussions once again. But Yuuri knows it’ll make Viktor feel better if they do, so he nods. “Yeah. I'm ready.”

“What's your name?”

“Katsuki Yuuri,” Yuuri says, and then pauses at the small, secret smile forming on Viktor's face. “What is it? I know I got that right.”

“Hmm? Oh nothing,” Viktor says. His smile grows wider, causing his eyes to crinkle around the corners. “I’m just thinking about the day ‘Nikiforov’ is going to be added to the end. Or should I only take yours? ‘Viktor Katsuki’ has a nice ring to it, don't you think?”

Truthfully, Yuuri's lost count on how many times he fantasized about it himself. But he’s never expected to have an actual candid conversation with Viktor on the subject, especially so out of the blue. The thought of Viktor taking on his surname, being labeled as _his_ , sends a possessive thrill up his spine. It’s chased by embarrassment shortly thereafter, and he hides his shame of being excited by such a prospect by burying his face in a nearby pillow. “ _Viktor_ …”

Viktor laughs and kisses the crown of Yuuri’s head, apologetic. “Okay, okay, we can decide later,” he says before he goes on to the next standard question. “Do you know your current location?”

“St. Petersburg, Russia.” Yuuri turns his head when he answers so his voice isn't muffled. The fingers he still has Viktor's chest flex against the warm, supple skin until his palm is placed directly against it. “Specifically in our apartment,” he says, looking back up towards Viktor. “With you.”

“With me,” Viktor echoes, nodding in affirmation, a light dusting of pink peppered across his nose. His smile dims a little as he asks, “Now, do you remember what happened earlier?”

Yuuri does remember, and that's the problem: he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to relive it and what it possibly means for him from now on. But Viktor is expecting an answer.

“My blade fell off when I was skating,” Yuuri says, monotone. He figures it’ll be easier to get out if he just lists the facts as if he's an unaffected bystander. If he pretends it's not gnawing away at him on the inside. “And I crashed into the rink boards.”

Viktor doesn't respond right away. Instead, he finally relinquishes his grip on Yuuri’s hand in favor of draping his arms across Yuuri’s shoulders. “You did,” he says softly, his fingers carding through the hair on the back of Yuuri’s head, “but only after you completed a perfect quadruple salchow, even better than Yurio’s, and that’s with your skates the way they were. Our favorite grumpy _kotyonok_ is probably going to demand a rematch soon,” he chuckles, “and I know you can beat him then too, okay?”

“Okay,” Yuuri says with a watery smile. The disappointment at losing is still there, but it’s faded in intensity now, lessened by Viktor’s unwavering faith in him. Every time his confidence runs low, the seemingly exorbitant amounts Viktor has are there to fill him up again.

“Good,” Viktor says. He moves his hands down and grips Yuuri’s shoulders, giving them a comforting squeeze. His voice grows solemn as he adds, “The same thing goes for whatever has been bothering you lately.”

Yuuri’s breath hitches around the sudden lump in his throat. He should've known this was coming. Viktor keeps giving him these chances to reveal what’s wrong, all with no real pressure behind them. But if Yuuri keeps turning them down like this, he doesn’t know how many more he’ll have left. Viktor’s patience, while almost plentiful, must be reaching its limits by now.

“You don't have to tell me now,” Viktor says, as if he senses Yuuri's distress. His words are brimming with support, but it's not enough to cover up the tinge of sadness Yuuri hears underneath. “You can do it whenever you're ready.”

“I will,” Yuuri whispers, surprised to find he actually means it.

After Worlds, he decides. That’s when he’ll finally speak out and say something, let everything out. That way whatever backlash occurs will be after the season and will have hopefully died down before the next one starts. It's less than two weeks away, so it's not like he’ll keep Viktor in the dark for much longer.

Yuuri can hold out onto then.

\---

It's halfway through the month of March, with no signs of winter close to releasing its icy grip over Russia. It's not like Yuuri has never experienced the cold; Hasetsu can get pretty chilly from the wind whipping off the waves, and when he was in Detroit the weather could be downright brutal at times. But St. Petersburg is on a whole different level. A fresh snowfall has occurred overnight, blanketing what’s already been left on the ground from before. It's the kind of morning Yuuri wishes he could spend in bed, lazing about the rest of the day with plenty of hot cocoa and cuddling.

But he can't. He doesn't have the time. He and Viktor are leaving for Worlds in a matter of days and there's still so much to do. Besides packing and other last minute travel preparations, their training sessions have increased to the point where they're both up before the crack of dawn and later collapsing into their bed close to midnight. Not surprisingly, it's draining as hell and Yuuri is looking forward to a reprieve afterwards, but for now he likes being busy. It helps keep his mind off of things.

He's sitting on the edge of bed, slipping on an extra layer of warm socks to ensure his toes won't fall off from the freezing conditions outside, when a pair of arms wrap around his neck from behind. “Yuuuuuuuri~” Viktor croons in his ear. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“I don't know,” Yuuri says. He turns his head and smirks. “You won’t be able to use your bike right now and I don’t think you could keep up with me otherwise.”

He's not much for photography--that's more of Phichit’s thing that never rubbed off on Yuuri, even with his friend’s best efforts--but he wishes he had his camera ready, because Viktor's expression at the moment is priceless. “ _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor whines, his pout out in full force, “that’s so mean....”

“Well, it's true,” Yuuri deadpans, though he pats Viktor's head in apology. “I don't need Yakov angry at me that I wore you out before practice. Go on ahead and I'll meet you there later.”

“Fine,” Viktor huffs, having a flair for the dramatics as ever. But he still places a soft kiss to Yuuri’s temple before he moves off the bed to get ready for the day himself. “I’ll grab your bag for you and bring it with me so you don’t have to worry about it.”

When Viktor suggested he wanted to take more responsibility for Yuuri’s equipment, he hadn’t been kidding. He’s purchased a new personalized set of skate blades for Yuuri (plus an extra backup pair just to be safe), ignoring Yuuri’s protests that one) he can pay for them himself, and two) there wasn’t anything technically wrong with his old ones. The only thing that stopped Viktor from replacing the entire skates altogether was Yuuri pointing out that there’s no way he’d be able to break them in on time.

But if Viktor is hypervigilant about Yuuri’s skates, Yuuri himself is just plain paranoid. Every time he puts them on now, he checks them over once and then double-checks again, from top to bottom. A part of him expects to find his laces cut or shards of glass embedded in the sole, but so far there’s been nothing else. No more letters, no more incidents, nothing.

Sometimes, he likes to imagine that maybe it’s because he’s finally proven himself worthy of being on the same ice as Viktor. He’s discovered that he is a long time ago, both in Viktor’s and his own eyes, but he wants everyone to see as well. Not because he cares about their approval per se, but because he wants them to realize that there’s a reason that Viktor is his, and nothing they do could ever make Yuuri willingly give that up.

(It's why, despite Viktor pushing for a longer recovery time, Yuuri was back on the ice two days after the crash, more determined than ever show he’s capable enough to rise up against anything that's thrown at him. The concerned stares from his rink mates at his recovering face had transformed into ones filled with amazement as he practiced jump after jump after jump, completing them all beautifully. Even Yuri had begrudgingly admitted he was impressed, in a backhanded compliment along the lines of Yuuri ‘must’ve had some talent knocked into him.’)

But Yuuri can longer afford to be naive and think everything will clear up on its own that easily. He has to plan for the possibility that whoever’s out there doing this has more things up their sleeve, and whatever they do next, Yuuri has to be prepared to face it head -on. He just hopes the other shoe doesn't drop any time soon.

Calling out his rushed goodbyes and giving Makkachin a quick head-pat in passing, Yuuri dashes out the front door of the apartment. As soon as he steps outside, he inhales deeply, the medical mask looped around his ears doing next to nothing against the first frigid burst of air that hits his nostrils and shoots down to his lungs. The wind nips at the apples of his cheeks, turning them a rosy red in a matter of seconds, along with the tip of his nose and the parts of his ears that aren't covered by his beanie. His breathing comes out like fog that envelopes him briefly before it dissipates into the air as unseen ice crystals, emphasizing how cold it really is this morning. But he doesn’t mind. He knows once he starts getting the muscles moving and the blood pumping, he’ll actually embrace the cool temperatures and count on them to wick away the sweat later.

After a short series of warm-up stretches to make sure he’s loose and limber, he begins his jog, deciding to take a route he’s taken multiple times before. Some days, when he has Makkachin with him, Yuuri will go to a nearby park. Whenever that's the case, most of the time he ends up having to stop Makkachin from chasing any wild animals they stumble across rather than get any actual exercise done.

Today, however, Yuuri sticks to a more urban environment, always eager to explore more of the city that’s becoming his home away from home. In the brief time he’s lived here, he’s come to realize St. Petersburg itself is a living, breathing thing, with different moods depending on the time of day. Right now it’s still waking up like a great slumbering beast, with slow stirrings of life evident in the opening of the various shops and stalls. There’s the little corner market where they pick up all their groceries, the trip usually taking a little longer as Yuuri uses the labels on everything as practice for his Russian. Right next door is the pet store with the owner who always has one of Makkachin’s favorite treats on hand whenever they visit. As Yuuri passes his and Viktor’s favorite bakery, the enticing scent of freshly baked pastries wafts out of the vents, tempting him to stop. He reluctantly continues to press on, though he makes a mental note to ask Viktor if they can drop by on their way home later.

Apart from a few people here or there, it seems that not many others are actually out braving the weather quite yet, with Yuuri mumbling a hasty, accented ‘ _izvineeti_ ’ to the ones he does pass. Most of them give him a wide berth anyway, alerted of his presence by the sound of his sneakers slapping against the slush on the sidewalk. None of them really say anything to him in return--well, nothing he can hear over the music he has playing through his earbuds anyway--but he doesn’t mind. The peace lets his brain wander off without any interruptions to drag it kicking and screaming back to things he wants to ignore for the moment. 

Before he realizes it, he’s traveled around five kilometers in what seems like in a blink of an eye. He can feel it in the form of a burn that’s starting to creep into his calf muscles and up into his hamstrings, in the tiny droplets of perspiration that are beginning to bead on his brow. It doesn’t mean he’s throwing in the towel yet though; after checking the time on his phone, he figures he can add in at least another three kilometers more before he has to head in the direction of the ice rink. Maybe he can swing back to the bakery after all and pick up some coffee and vatrushki to share with Viktor for breakfast. He might even pick up a delicious cinnamon sladkay bulochka to split as well. Sure, it’s not the most nutritious thing to have, especially on their current diet plan, but they’ve both been working so hard lately that he thinks they could use a treat, just this once.

The hard jolt to his shoulder out of nowhere snaps him out of his daydreaming and almost knocks him off his feet. Immediately he bows his head on instinct, thinking he’s accidentally bumped into someone while not paying attention to his surroundings. “ _Izvineeti, pazhalusta_!” he exclaims, switching to English because he’s still a little self-conscious about using his Russian skills on strangers, especially when he's put on the spot. “Sorry, I didn’t--”

He stops mid-sentence when he sees it’s the maintenance worker from the rink. Some part of him wonders if he should know the man’s name by now, but it’s not like the two of them are friends or even friendly acquaintances, having exchanged nothing but a handful of words in between them. In fact, this is the first time they’ve met outside the rink, and Yuuri has no idea what proper protocol the situation calls for. Polite greetings? A little late for that, considering they literally ran into one another. Idle conversation about the weather? Yuuri isn’t sure how many different ways there are to state the obvious ‘it’s cold today, huh?’ in Russian.

So perhaps it’s rude for him to want to leave so soon, but he really does have to hurry if he wants to make it to the bakery before practice. “Um,” he says while jerking a thumb in the direction behind him and shuffling a foot against the ground, “sorry again, but I have to go...”

“Come with me,” the man says, abruptly. He's standing so close that Yuuri can smell the sourness of stale alcohol on his breath.

Yuuri blinks at the awkward offer, and then holds up his hands in a placating fashion, backing away slowly with an embarrassed smile. “No, that’s okay, I have other things I need to do before I head to the rink--”

A hand shoots out and grabs onto the sleeve of Yuuri’s jacket, stopping him in his tracks. “ _I said,_ ” the man stresses, “come. With. Me.”

Yuuri tries to tug his hand away, but the grip around his wrist is holding fast and firm. “Let go of my arm--”

“ _Zatknis’_ ,” the man hisses, his fingers digging in so tight Yuuri is going to have bruises later, “ _Idi syuda, idiota kusok._ ”

And then it all clicks into place.

For a split second, Yuuri forgets to breathe. “... _It's you_ ,” he then exhales a beat later with a loud whoosh. It's not even in the form of a question; he knows. _He knows._ He can see it in the man’s sneer and the steel in his eyes.

He always thought it was a disgruntled skater or overzealous fan sending the letters, not someone who works behind the scenes. Not someone who has access to pretty much everything: the ice and the Zamboni, the locker room and the lockers, the file cabinets with everyone’s information. It makes sense now.

What Yuuri can’t understand is _why_.

Frankly, at this point, he doesn’t know if he even cares.

There had been times where he wondered how he’d react if ever met the sender of the letters face to face. He always knew he wouldn’t be scared or contrite like they wanted him to be, but he thought he would be a little more anxious than he is right now.

Instead, he’s just _angry_. He’s more furious than he’s ever been in his entire life, more than he ever thought possible. His entire body shakes from the force of his rage crashing over him, his muscles tensing until the sinews stick out from underneath skin. He’s not a violent person by nature, but the desire for retribution for everything is so powerful that it has his vision going red around the edges.

Summoning inner strength he didn’t know he possessed, he finally tears his wrist free, consciously making no effort to support it even though the joint is now throbbing. If it turns out it’s injured _again_ , he is going to snap and do something he’ll might regret later but it will be so damn satisfying for the time being.

Movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention and he now realizes that, _shit_ , they aren't alone. Yuuri’s stomach plummets to the soles of his feet when he spots at least three other men walk up to stand behind their apparent companion, their bulky and heavily tattooed appearances screaming that they’re not the type to mess around with. He’s no weakling himself, but there’s no way he can pick a fight with four against one and come out unscathed. He can’t even call out for help because the street is devoid of any other people. So, he does the only thing he can think of, the thing he’s been doing all morning, the only thing he _can_ do:

He runs.

\---

Katsuki Yuuri is a world-class athlete, having won international medals and awards for his capabilities. Katsuki Yuuri isn’t the fastest person alive, but he could probably outlast other long-distance joggers with the stamina in his pinky finger alone. Katsuki Yuuri is stronger than most people--including himself at times--give him credit for.

Unfortunately, Katsuki Yuuri is also completely out of his element.

He makes the mistake of turning down an alleyway with a dead end and doesn’t realize his error until it’s too late; he's trapped. His only exit is now blocked off by the men who look more like extras off the set of a low budget gang movie than actual people, heightening the surreal nature of the situation. He’s pretty sure one of them even has a switchblade in his hand, another what appears to be a long pipe or piece of rebar picked up out of a nearby dumpster. 

This can’t be actually happening. It’s the kind of situation his poor mother always worried he’d get into when he was living on his own in Detroit. It’s the reason he and Phichit attended a couple of self-defense classes for an extra credit back in college, constantly discussing what they were going to do if they were ever mugged or somehow involved in a club fight, ignoring the fact that outside class and skating they didn’t really go out anywhere else. Even after all the foreign cities Yuuri’s visited over the years, with some of the areas sketchier than others, he’s never felt the need to actually utilize the skills he’s learned. Until now.

His pockets suddenly vibrate and the first few notes of “Stammi Vicino” follow soon afterwards. Of course, his phone, _his phone_ ; he doesn't know how he could forget he has it on him. He’s been so preoccupied with trying to get away that he hasn't thought to stop and contact anyone for help.

Viktor's calling him now, probably because their practice should have started five minutes ago and he’s late. Yuuri answers the phone, cutting off any greeting Viktor gives with a rushed, “Viktor, help me--” before the phone is abruptly knocked out of his hand. It hits a nearby brick wall, his blue poodle case cracking from the impact, and then falls to ground screen facedown.

And it isn't it funny that his focus is on that rather than the fist that's headed in his direction.

The punch catches him in the right eye with a loud crack, causing him to reel backwards. His glasses fly off somewhere in the distance, and he swears he hears the distinct sound of the lenses being crushed under someone’s foot. Fuck, his eye is screaming in pain; he doesn't know if the stinging wet warmth that’s now dripping from it is tears or blood, or both.

“ _Suchka blyat_ ,” the maintenance worker curses as he shakes out his hand, knuckles now battered and bloodied, giving Yuuri a grim sense of satisfaction. “Fucking _Yaposhka_ , you should've left when I told you. You don't belong here in Russia. Do you really think you could ever be better than Viktor?”

“No,” Yuuri says, and it's true. No matter how much he improves, he'll never think he's above the pedestal he's built Viktor on over all these years. If anything, he likes to think he's become equal to it.

He shouldn't provoke his antagonists, considering the odds aren't in his favor. But he's not going to be that weak, shy ball of nerves they think he is either. “But,” he adds with a wry grin, “at least Viktor knows who I am when he doesn't even know you exist.”

This time he's prepared for the fist that comes swinging his way. He ducks out of its path, silently thanking Minako-sensei and her teaching for his range of flexibility, and jabs the sharp point of his elbow directly into the man's solar plexus. Yuuri's rewarded with a loud ‘oof!’ for his efforts, and god, that should not feel as good as it does. He wonders if this rush is why Yuri has such a bad habit of kicking people.

That thought is short-lived, because right, he’s almost forgotten there's more than one he has to deal with. As the man staggers backwards trying to catch his breath, his friends lunge forward and surround Yuuri from all angles. He dips down, attempting to crawl between them to get away, only for them to grab him by the collar and toss him like a rag doll, the compacted layer of snow and ice on the ground doing nothing to cushion his fall.

“ _Yebat tebya v rot_ ,” the maintenance worker wheezes, still bent over double. Yuuri must've hit him harder than he thought. “Like we're going to let you walk away now, motherfucker.”

While flat on his back, Yuuri can’t dodge the kick to his head that aggravates his injured eye and makes the whole world spin. Nor can he do anything to prevent the pipe that slams across his chest, all the air knocked out of his lungs as his ribs concave inwards.

It's now clear that he's going to die here. He's going to die in an alleyway somewhere in the middle of St. Petersburg, away from everyone and everything he cares about. He's never going to relax in his family's hot springs again, or eat his mother’s katsudon. He's no longer going to be able to dance in the ballet studio or skate performances on the ice. He has to break his promise to Phichit about being in his ice exhibition. He won't get to trade friendly verbal sparring with Yuri while sharing homemade pirozhki. He can't cuddle with Makkachin anymore and rub the poodle’s belly after a long, hard day. He--

Viktor. _Viktor_.

Viktor’s heart-shaped smile beaming while he showers Yuuri with praise. Viktor’s arms waiting to wrap around in a firm hug whenever Yuuri needs it. Viktor's voice whispering in Yuuri’s ear, his accent transforming Yuuri’s name into something unique, almost holy, as he repeats it over and over like it's a litany. Viktor's unwavering faith being the light that casts the darkness of Yuuri’s doubts away.

What if Viktor never finds out what happens because Yuuri was too stubborn to say anything? What if Viktor thinks Yuuri left without a trace after they've made a commitment to stay by each other's side?

That hurts the most. Yuuri swore to Viktor that he'd never let anyone steal him away. _He swore_. He never thought he'd break it.

No, he refuses to let that happen. He hasn't worked this hard, come this far, just for it to end like this.

As both a skater and a dancer, his legs are his most powerful assets and he uses them to his advantage. His kicks out, albeit blindly, the soft thud of his foot hitting flesh and the pained yell that comes afterwards telling him that he hit his target. He does it again, and again, ignoring how each time sends shockwaves up his aching body. He wishes he had on his skates, wishes he could use his toepick as other means of defense. But for now, all he can do is kick and hope it'll be enough to fend off his attackers.

It comes to a grinding halt at the sudden piercing pain to the side of his knee. He's hyper aware of the blade entering through his skin, slicing and severing at muscle sinew, and sinking all the way until it scrapes bone. The removal is almost as agonizing. There's a wail building up in Yuuri's throat as the knife stabs into his leg again and again and _again_ until it actually snaps off inside him. But the only sound that he produces is a feeble, sucking cough, the taste of blood hitting the back of his teeth and swarming his mouth.

Still, he struggles, though he knows he's fading and fast. He continues to kick out with his other leg, strength ebbing out of him with every strike. And maybe he should be concerned that he doesn't feel the pain as intensely any more, that he doesn't react to the unmistakable crunch of the bones in his ankle being shattered. Somehow he manages to curl around himself to shield vital organs until the help he prays he’ll get arrives. But he doesn't know how much longer he can last. Already the vision in his right eye is completely dark, the one in his left rapidly growing spotty and grey.

 _Sorry,_ he thinks, the last threads of consciousness beginning to slip out of his grasp. He's not sure if he's apologizing to those who believe in him, his friends, his family, Viktor, or even to himself. _I'm sorry._

\---

It’s cold.

It’s too cold.

Yuuri pulls his training jacket tighter around his shoulders and briskly rubs at his arms for warmth. But nothing helps. It’s as if the chill is coming from his core rather than the ice below his feet.

A single spotlight shining overhead is the only source of illumination in an otherwise pitch black arena. It follows him around the rink, tracking his every movement and highlighting it for an audience that might not even exist.

He doesn’t know how he got here, or why. An urgent voice at the back of his head is frantically whispering that he’s forgetting something, something very important. But he ignores it in favor of gliding out to the center of the ice, swirling circles and figure eights as he goes.

This is the lightest he ever remembers being in his entire life. Usually he’s weighed down by self-doubts that shackle themselves to his feet whenever he jumps. Now his bones have been gouged out, hollowed to the weight of a bird’s. That could be why he feels so empty inside as he soars into the air.

There’s a multitude of voices now; some are foreign to him, others familiar but full recognition dances right out of reach. They intermingle and splice with one another until they’re a single entity deafening in his ears. He tries to block it out, only for it to grow louder, a cacophony of pure incomprehensible _noise_ that can’t be switched off.

He can’t listen, not now, and a geyser of guilt bursts and wears away at him for thinking such a thing, though he doesn’t know the reason why. All he wants to do is jump. One last, final show-stopping jump. Can’t they understand that?

Everything slows to a snail’s crawl as he launches himself upwards. He mentally counts the number of rotations as he spins: _one...two...three...four…_

That’s good. He can be content with that. But his body isn’t responding and continues to twist.

_Five…_

Wait a minute.

_Six…_

There’s no way this is possible.

_Seven…_

No, he can’t do this. This isn’t happening.

_Eight…_

Stop. There’s no way he can land this without crashing. He’s going to fall again, _he’s going to fall_ \--

_Nine…_

Please, _stop!_

_Ten--_

Just when he’s bracing himself to hit the ice, his eyes snap open, and he _breathes_. And oh, oh, it’s bright, it’s much too bright, it hurts. Scratch that, _everything_ hurts. He swears even his eyelashes are throbbing. He lets out a pitiful moan through dry, cracked lips, or at least tries to, but it’s muffled by the oxygen mask fastened to his face.

Panic seizes his body until he’s fully able to take in his surroundings: the beige, sterile walls with medical charts, the IV drip hooked to his left arm, the various monitors whose chirping increases as his level of distress climbs.

So he’s at a hospital, then. More importantly, he’s alive.

Or maybe he’s dead and this is actually hell, because damn, all his nerve endings have been doused with gasoline and lit on fire, from his hair follicles down to his toenails. The simple act of breathing alone, even with the assistance of the mask, has tears springing to the corners of his eyes. Well, eye; his right one is covered by a gauze pad, his brow itching from what feels like medical tape stuck to it.

He wills his leadened arm to reach up and tentatively poke and prod at it to discover what’s wrong, but it refuses to cooperate. He goes to flex his fingers instead, figuring it’s best to stick to small, slow movements. But they’re locked into place with a familiar warmth that seeps into the coldness of his own.

Hope surges up within his chest, a bird fluttering to the open door of a cage. Just the act of turning his head a few degrees is excruciating, the vertebrae in his neck creaking like they haven’t been used in years. Yet it’s worth it when he spots the whorl of a platinum-haired head resting on the hospital bed by his hip and his fingers interlaced with ones bearing a ring that matches his own.

Viktor. He's here. There’s no way Yuuri can be in hell if _Viktor is here_.

Yuuri wants to shout Viktor’s name, wants assurance that this is real and not a fabrication created by last minute synapses firing off in a dying brain. But even though he woke up not more than a few minutes ago, he’s already exhausted, fatigue ballasting into the hull of his body so it's deadened with weight. So, if this is just a dream, he at least has Viktor by his side for now, and that comfort allows Yuuri to fade back into the oblivion.

\---

The next time Yuuri wakes up, Viktor is gone.

Yuuri would swear his heart has stopped if it isn’t for the beeping monitor that says otherwise. Had it really been a hallucination after all? He gulps at the air filtered to him like a fish out of water, but it does nothing to ease the tight, burning ache in his chest.

Even if Viktor isn’t there, it turns out Yuuri isn’t alone as a cool, comforting hand reaches out to rub at his pulse point. It belongs to what looks like a nurse judging by her scrubs, her soft smile reminding Yuuri of the one his mother used to give him whenever he was sick. “It’s okay,” she says, her accent so thick that Yuuri has to strain to understand her, “You’re safe now.”

“Vi...ktor,” Yuuri croaks. He hates how just saying Viktor’s name takes so much effort out of him, when all he wants to do is say it over and over until the man in question shows up.

Maybe the desire itself is strong enough, or fate has decided now to be kind, because the door clicks open and in walks Viktor. His hair is disheveled as if there’s been an attempt to comb it with fingers with little success, and his wrinkled clothes look like they’ve been worn for a few days in a row now. The tear-tracks on his cheeks and redness of his eyes suggest that he’s been crying, which is still such a foreign concept to Yuuri, no matter how many times he’s seen it now. Especially when every time it’s been over him.

All in all, at the moment Viktor is far from the polished, well put together image that’s usually presented to the public.

Yuuri thinks it’s the most perfect sight in the world.

The paper cup in Viktor’s hands falls to the floor the second their gazes meet, splashing coffee everywhere including the bottom hem of Viktor’s pants. He doesn’t seem to notice; instead he surges forward in long strides to cradle Yuuri’s face carefully in between his palms. “Yuuri,” he chokes out. New tears start to run down his face, following the paths previous ones have left. “Yuuri, Yuuri, thank god, _Yuuri_ , I was so…” He stops and releases a shuddering breath. “I wanted to be here when you first woke up, I’m sorry.”

 _You were_ , Yuuri wants to say to reassure him. Now that he’s more coherent, he doesn’t blame Viktor for stepping out to get some caffeine in his system; he notices how Viktor’s normally impeccable posture is hunched over, the invisible weight of the world on his sagging shoulders. If he hadn’t saw Viktor snoozing earlier, he’d be worried that Viktor hasn’t slept in forever.

“Viktor,” Yuuri says again, because if he’s going to expel the energy to say anything, it’s going to be Viktor’s name in hopes that’ll convey all the emotions he wants to express. _Viktor, I’m sorry, Viktor, please stay with me, Viktor, Viktor, Viktor…_

“Shh, _lyubov moy_ ,” Viktor whispers. The way he lowers himself down so their foreheads brush against each other is excruciatingly gentle, as if he’s afraid the increased touch might break Yuuri. When in reality, it’s the glue that’s helping keep Yuuri together. “I’m here.”

\---

Three days pass by after that, or at least Yuuri thinks it's three. Despite wanting to stay awake as much as possible so he can bask in Viktor's presence, Yuuri finds himself drifting in and out most of the time, the faces of the medical staff that come in and out of his room blurring in his mind. He understands why once he hears the full extent of his injuries: the orbital socket of his right eye is fractured with bleeding inside the cornea, but the prognosis is good that his vision will eventually recover. Two of his ribs have been severely broken with another three fractured; it’s to the point where one of his lungs was punctured in the process and even required the brief insertion of a chest tube below his collarbone to correct it. His one leg looks like that of a mummy from the amount of bandages wrapped around the numerous stab wounds while the other is in a foot cast for his shattered malleolus. The list goes on and on, including the multiple contusions and internal bleeding over the various parts of his body, making him feel like he’s just one massive bruise.

By all accounts, it's a miracle he’s survived. Given the way Viktor grips his hand tight while the doctor explains everything in slow, halting English, Yuuri's not the only one who thinks so.

It’s later that evening that the realization that the rest of the world has continued to press on outside the hospital crashes into the forefront of his thoughts. Thanks to Yuuri’s out-of-sync sleep schedule, he’s currently wide awake. He’s still tired as hell of course--he never realized lying in a hospital bed all day could be so draining--but his mind is racing with no signs of slowing down anytime soon.

“Viktor,” Yuuri suddenly rasps, his voice scratchy like nails on a chalkboard and feeling just as painful against his raw throat. At least he’s been switched to oxygen tubes that plug into his nose from the mask that covered the entire lower half of his face and made it nearly impossible to communicate. “What day is it?”

“Hmm?” Viktor looks up the chair he’s been sitting in for the majority of the time, even though Yuuri’s protested that it can’t be good for his back. Though he doesn’t know if the fold-out couch for visitors is much better, considering Viktor’s tall enough that his legs tend to hang over the edge. “It’s Saturday, why?”

Yuuri frowns. That doesn’t really help tell him anything when he’s not sure how long he’s been in the hospital before he woke up. “I mean, what’s the date?”

The delayed silence that follows afterwards does nothing to appease Yuuri’s nerves.

“...Ah, Yuuri,” Viktor says, forcing what Yuuri guesses is supposed to be a sympathetic smile but it comes across more as a grimace. “You should worry about getting better, not anything else--”

“The _date_ , Viktor,” Yuuri says. “What is it?”

Viktor runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “It's the 22nd.”

Of course it is. Of course it means Yuuri is here, stuck in a hospital bed, instead of attending the World Championships. Everything that he's worked so hard on, everything that he's been preparing for, everything that he's been _dreaming_ of...poof, gone, vanished. Just like that.

He was going to win gold for Viktor. _He was going to win gold._ But now the chance has been stolen from him and he can never get it back.

When compared to the ordeal he's been through, he knows missing Worlds isn't that bad in the grand scheme of things. He should be thankful to be alive and leave it at that.

But the loss of what could've been, what _should've_ been, still burns.

“Viktor, you should go,” Yuuri says. He hates how the wobble of his words betrays his inner emotions. “You still have time if you catch a flight tonight. The ISU adore you. I'm sure they'll understand and let you compete--”

“I'm not going.”

“ _What_?!” Yuuri exclaims, triggering a coughing fit. Viktor is on his feet and by Yuuri’s side in an instant, reaching over for the call button, but Yuuri shakes his head. He wants to rely on the breathing techniques the nurses have taught him first, and after a few harrowing seconds, he gets his breathing back under control. The experience, while short, leaves him light-headed, and he falls back against his pillows with a strained grunt, black spots dancing in front of his vision. 

But he's not about to drop the conversation so easily. “Why?” he gasps in between taking the cup of water Viktor brings to his lips and drinking greedily. “You’ve never missed a competition before.”

Viktor responds by shrugging his shoulders. The action is one of practiced nonchalance, something that Yuuri can't understand. “Once you go to enough of them, they all sort of blend into each other after a while,” he says by way of explanation. “But if you really wanted to go to Saitama, we can always visit on our own later.”

“But if you don't go, then neither of us will win gold,” Yuuri says, taking Viktor's hand into his own and squeezing it. “I can't let you give that up for me.”

“...Yuuri, listen to me.” Viktor lifts Yuuri’s hand and places it against his mouth. He trails soft kisses upwards, tracing the lines in the palm as he goes, until he reaches the ring finger. “The only gold I care about was nearly taken from me.” Yuuri can feel the slight tremble in Viktor's lips as he kisses the gold band, in the way Viktor presses Yuuri’s hand against his face, in the fresh dampness pooling in Viktor's eyes under Yuuri's touch. “I'm not about to let you out of my sight again.”

“ _Viktor_ ,” Yuuri breathes. He swallows down the emotions rising in his throat before he lets out a shaky, “Okay.”

Maybe Yuuri hasn't had the chance to win that he wanted. But it doesn't mean he's lost either.

\---

He's awoken by a smattering of kisses to his cheeks and temple in the morning. While it's definitely one of his favorite ways to start the day, for a minute it makes him think that he's back with Viktor in the privacy and comfort of their own bed. He has to tamp down the pang of disappointment inside him when he remembers the truth.

“Good morning, _zolotse_ ,” Viktor murmurs, his voice husky from sleep and accent more pronounced than usual. He props himself up on his elbows on the side of Yuuri's bed, his smile as gentle and dream-like as his gaze. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Yuuri says with a yawn to punctuate his point. It's become his stock answer as of late, even though his healing has progressed enough that there's talk of him being released by the end of the month and continuing his recovery at home. He still has a long road of him, with hours upon hours of physical therapy in his distant future, but he's determined to be back in peak form before the next skating season begins.

“Hopefully not too tired,” Viktor teases. He has an eager gleam in his eyes, like there's a secret he's bursting at the seams to tell. “You have visitors.”

“Visitors?” Yuuri repeats, blinking at the news. He's already overwhelmed by number of flowers, cards, balloons, and other gifts received from fans and friends alike that cover every available surface in his room. There's so many that he's actually had to start donating the overflow to the other wards.

Suddenly he's very self-conscious about his haggard appearance. He's had a recent sponge bath--and wasn't _that_ an embarrassing experience, especially with Viktor chiming in that he wanted to help--but he's very much aware that his current state is probably not fit for polite company right about now. “Viktor, I’m not--”

“Trust me.” Viktor says and pats his shoulder for reassurance. He then raises his head and calls out, “Okay, come in!”

When the door opens, Yuuri can't believe who he sees standing there. His eyes instantly well up with tears and his fingers shake as they hover over his trembling smile. “... _Kaasan_?! Mari-neechan?! How...What are you two doing here?”

“Yuuri!” Hiroko rushes over and automatically dabs at his tears with corner of her sleeve, just like she always did when he came to her crying when he was younger. The thought makes Yuuri’s smile grow so wide that his cheeks hurt. “We were so worried when we heard the news,” she says in rapid Japanese, reminding him how much he misses hearing his mother tongue; he's been helping Viktor practice in their spare time, but it's just the same. “I'm so glad you're okay.”

“Kaasan,” Yuuri whispers, still in shock. He's an adult man, much too old to be fawned over like a baby any more, but he can't deny how much it means to have his mother here. He peers around to the space behind her, curious. “...Is Tousan with you too?”

“Sorry, Yuuri,” Mari says. She's as stoic as ever but there's a slight sheen to her eyes when she looks down at him. “He wanted to come too, but we couldn't close Yuutopia on such short notice, so he had to stay behind.”

“That's right.” Hiroko nods and wipes the tears from her own eyes as she beams. “The only reason we're even here is because Vicchan paid for our plane tickets.”

Yuuri jerks his head up at that and stares at Viktor with awe. He knows that Viktor has enough funds to cover the tickets and isn't stingy in when it comes to spreading his wealth. But still, there are no words that can define how much it means that Viktor has made sure that Yuuri has his family nearby. “You bought their plane tickets?” he asks in English.

Viktor nods with a bright smile, his eyes twinkling in excitement. “Of course! There's one for your father too, once he can get away from the onsen,” he says. “I was trying to get them here sooner, but this was the earliest I could manage.”

Before Yuuri can express his gratitude for the heartfelt gesture, Hiroko clasps her hands together. “Yuuri, are they feeding you properly in here? When’s the last time you and Vicchan had a home-cooked meal? Do you think he’ll help me pick up the ingredients to make katsudon?”

It’s not even that amusing of a question. But it’s so mundane in the face of everything Yuuri’s experienced--a slice of normalcy, of love, of _home_ \--that his laughter is a release of all the tension he’s had built up inside. He doesn’t even mind that it spawns a coughing spasm afterwards, too happy at the moment to care.

\---

While Yuuri is primarily preoccupied with his stay in the hospital, the ever present memory of _why_ he’s there remains in the back of his head. He's constantly reminded of it, either by the posts he reads about himself on social media or his own picture staring back at him from the televised news. It's a huge story that has everyone in the skating community buzzing, though he thinks it might have to do mostly in part with Viktor not being present at Worlds for the first time in years.

Like everyone else, the only thing Viktor seems to know is that Yuuri was attacked, because that much is obvious. He hasn't pressed Yuuri for any more details beyond that, more concerned at the moment with Yuuri’s recovery above everything else. He’s had to slip into his coach role a few times, releasing a blanket statement to the press in Yuuri’s place via telephone and putting a hold on all other media inquiries and interviews until Yuuri’s condition is considered more stable. Upon hearing that, Yuuri breathes a sigh of relief; besides the fact that he's not that great with dealing with reporters even on a good day, he still needs to tell Viktor himself everything first, just between the two of them.

Before he gets the opportunity, however, the police show up directly at the hospital to speak about the incident.

“We can always have them come back later if you don't feel up to it,” Viktor says. Like usual, his fingers are intertwined with Yuuri’s, the comfortable press of his hand a signifier of his presence at all times, even when Yuuri can’t see him.

Honestly, Yuuri debates the option for a second before he shakes his head. He’s tired of running away from his problems; it hasn’t worked for him thus far, so it needs to stop here and now. Plus, it’s not like he’s facing this head-on alone, since he has Viktor by his side. “No, I’m fine. You can send them in.”

The two officers who enter the room greet Viktor in Russian first but then switch to English for Yuuri’s sake, though Viktor has to step in every now and then to translate a word or phrase. They ask Yuuri to recount the events from the day the attack happened, and now it seems so long ago that at first he has trouble recalling every detail. Every time he starts to falter, Viktor squeezes his hand, spurring him on to continue with new vigor. He tells them about his morning jog, about bumping into the men and then being chased, about being trapped in alleyway with his phone smashed, about trying to fight back as they attacked him. Once he gets a good speed going, it’s hard for him to stop, the amount of words pouring out of him more than he’s said in this past week combined.

“...The last thing I remember is passing out,” he says, glad to be finally done telling the story, the shaking in his voice demonstrating the toll it’s taken out of him, “and then waking up in here.”

There's not even a chance for him to ask for water before Viktor is right there, helping Yuuri sit up so he can drink deeply. “Good job, Yuuri,” he hears Viktor say into the shell of his ear, soft and low so the others can’t listen in. “I’m proud of you.”

“You’re very lucky,” one of the officers says as he jots down something in his notepad. “And very brave. We arrested the men responsible shortly after a witness called and said she saw the attack from her apartment window. They all had some form of injuries on them; you even managed to rupture one of their spleens.”

Yuuri winces at the thought but can’t find it in himself to feel that guilty. Not after all the injuries he had received in return. “Oh,” he says blankly. “Um, okay.” He doesn’t think he’s going to get in trouble for it, considering he had been defending himself, and the officer is looking at him with open admiration rather than like he’s a suspect. Though Yuuri wonders if he’ll have deal with an investigation later on, especially since he’s an outsider currently in Russia on visa. He also wonders how the fickle ISU will react to the news and how this will affect his sponsorships, if at all.

“Do you either of you know this man?” the other officer asks. He flashes a printed photo of the maintenance worker in front of them and Yuuri clenches his teeth at the sight. “We believe he's the one who led the attack. It seems he’s actually employed at the rink the two of you train at. According to those who know him, he’s even considered a major fan of yours, Mr. Nikiforov.”

“I have no idea who that is,” Viktor says, blunt in his response. To the common bystander, his thin-lipped expression is impassive as tall, rocky mountains. But Yuuri knows him well enough to sense the anger that simmers underneath his stony facade, and even the officers look a little uneasy at the contempt radiating off him like steam.

A part of Yuuri wants to gloat that he was right, that the man wasn’t even a blip on Viktor’s radar. But this is neither the time nor place. “...I know him,” Yuuri says, squirming slightly when he feels Viktor’s widened eyes lock on him. “Sort of.”

“I see.” The officer slips the photo back into his dossier and clicks out his pen. “Do you know of any reason why he would attack you?”

And there it is. The question that’s been haunting Yuuri this entire time. He shakes his head, because no, he really doesn’t know why, except maybe a case of revengeful fanaticism. But he can’t just leave it at that. “There were...letters,” he says, and he’s surprised at how swiftly the words flow out now after he’s dammed them back all this time, “that I think he sent me.”

For a moment, the entire world freezes, the eerie quiet that envelops the room sending a chill down Yuuri’s spine. Seconds, maybe minutes--or even hours, he isn’t even sure--pass by before the illusion is broken.

“...What letters?” Viktor asks. At least, it looks like Viktor speaking, but he sounds nothing like his usual self. He’s much too stiff, robotic, unnatural. It’s kind of frightening. “ _Yuuri, what letters?_ ”

\---

So Yuuri tells them everything.

He begins at the first letter and explains how he thought it was only an elaborate prank until he kept receiving them. He doesn’t go into full detail about what each individual one said, still not ready to share how personal some of them had been, but summarizes the basic gist of their contents. He mentions the anonymous text messages, the tampering of the ice and his skates, everything leading up to the confrontation with who was behind it all.

He tells them everything. Well, he tells _Viktor_ everything. While Yuuri knows the officers are present in the room and taking notes, the entire time his focus has been on Viktor, who hasn’t moved or said a single thing since Yuuri’s started. His silence speaks volumes, more than a reprimanding lecture ever could.

Yet Yuuri manages to press on, collapsing back against the propped up pillows once he gets it all out in the open. He feels like up to this instant, he’s been compressing it inside until he’s close to the point of bursting. But now that’s been allowed to spill out of him, the hollowness it’s created with its existence leaves him over-stretched and brittle to the touch.

Thankfully, the officers seem to realize he’s been pushed past his limits for the day, and after leaving their information with promises to keep in touch in the future, they excuse themselves from his room. Yuuri doesn’t know if he even acknowledges their departure or not. His attention is still on Viktor, waiting anxiously to see what he has to say, if anything at all.

What Yuuri doesn’t expect is the sudden appearance of big, fat teardrops rolling down Viktor’s cheeks and hitting the linoleum floor with a faint _plip_. It’s much too similar to that fateful night in Barcelona for Yuuri’s liking. “...Viktor,” he says softly, his eyes widening. His hand automatically reaches out to Viktor like before, but he catches himself, not wanting his hand to be swatted away again. Not now. “You’re crying.”

That seems to set Viktor in motion. “Of course I am!” he snaps, not bothering to brush the tears away as they continue to fall. “Am I not allowed to care about you?”

“No,” Yuuri says and then quickly adds when Viktor pulls away from him, “I meant, of course I want you to care about me, Viktor.” He knew Viktor would be upset, but he’s never imagined it could be this painful. Now, the absence of Viktor’s hand in his hurts ten times more than any wound. “I know I should’ve told you about the letters and everything, but I didn’t want you to worry--”

“What if _I_ wanted to worry?” Viktor asks, cutting Yuuri off abruptly. He leans over the side of the hospital bed, his hands gripping the railing so tight that blood drains from his knuckles. “You didn’t even give me the option. Are you still so selfish a person to use my help only when _you_ want it?”

Yuuri flinches as the accusation hits him smack in the face. For a second he debates if it’s true. He knows he can be a selfish, impulsive person sometimes, putting his feelings over others without even thinking the whole situation from all different angles. This isn’t the first time Viktor has seen this ugly habit of his, calling him out on it, and it probably won’t be the last.

But Yuuri doesn’t think his innate selfishness is the single factor at play here. “I was scared,” he admits quietly, the shame pooling inside him and flooding his tone. “When ignoring it didn’t seem to work, it had been going on for so long that I thought if I tried doing anything about it then, or got you involved, he would do something in retaliation and I wouldn’t be able to stop him.”

He knows it sounds like a ridiculous excuse, and now that he’s viewing the whole situation through the perfect view of hindsight he knows he should have said something sooner and prevented all this from happening in the first place. But he has been blindly wanting to protect this life with Viktor he’s just recently created without fully weighing the consequences of his stubborn actions.

Without warning, his chin is grasped between fingers and lifted up to meet Viktor’s gaze. “Oh, _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor says, his lips fixed into a thin, bitter smile, “did you never stop to think that I might have dealt with overzealous fans myself before?”

“What?” Yuuri gapes at him in disbelief. Viktor is well known for being appreciative to his fans and the thought of that kindness being thrown back against him is maddening. Yuuri knows that there’s some out there who are envious of Viktor’s talent, making rude comments under the safe anonymity of the internet, but the majority of the world adores him. Or so Yuuri thought. “But…” he sputters, “but you’re Viktor Nikiforov!”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Viktor says, toneless. When he angles his face downwards, his bangs fall forward to cover his eyes. The image he presents looks so lonely, lost, so unlike the self-assured Viktor that Yuuri knows and loves. “There’s always going to be someone who looks at your accomplishments as an excuse to blame you for their shortcomings, no matter who you are. But especially if you're popular enough. ”

‘ _But that’s not your fault!’_ Yuuri wants to shout, but then he realizes that’s the whole point Viktor is trying to make. Instead he remains silent, waiting for Viktor continue.

He doesn’t have to wait long. “Do you remember when I cut my hair off?” Viktor asks abruptly after a beat. “It was shortly after my Senior debut.”

“Of course I do,” Yuuri says. Hundreds of fans were heartbroken at the drastic change, himself included, though he’s come to appreciate the shorter style Viktor has now. “In one of your interviews, you said it was because you wanted a more mature look.”

“Part of that’s true.” Viktor chuckles, the sound devoid of any real humor. The amused sparkle he usually gets whenever he’s reminded of Yuuri’s own fannish devotion is understandably absent from his eyes. He runs his hand through the aforementioned hair and sighs. “That’s what my publicist decided we should go with anyway. But it was mostly because an ex-boyfriend of one of my fans blamed me for their recent breakup. Something about her preferring my longer hair over his, so he tried to cut mine.”

That can’t be possible. Yuuri has been religiously following Viktor’s career for years; the resulting scandal over Viktor being attacked would have been impossible to miss, and yet this is the first time he’s heard of it. But Viktor wouldn’t lie about something like this. “When? There was nothing--”

“--on the news, I know,” Viktor says, forcing a farce of a smile that disappears in a flash. “His parents asked us for it to be kept secret, since he was underage. Only a little older than Yurio, but definitely more angry and misguided.” He pauses at the comparison and then shakes his head, his expression as turbulent as storm clouds gathering in the distance. “He didn’t even get close to me. Somehow he got inside the rink when I was practicing and he ran out on the ice in a pair of sneakers. He slipped, and the scissors he was carrying…”

The words trail off but Yuuri doesn't need to hear any more. It's enough for him to reach up with both hands and pull Viktor's head down against him with almost a crushing force, ignoring the uncomfortable pressure it puts against his chest. “It wasn't your fault,” he says, his tone gentle but insistence firm. “Whatever happened, it wasn't your fault.”

“I know,” Viktor says, his voice muffled through the fabric of Yuuri’s hospital gown. “He survived his injuries, but I didn't want anything like that to happen again, so I made the brash decision to cut it off.” The railing on the bed shakes slightly from the tremble in his hands. “I regretted it immediately. You can ask Yakov; I was inconsolable for weeks afterwards, but by then there was nothing that could be done about it.”

“Your poor hair,” Yuuri murmurs fondly, letting some of the strands slide through his fingers before kissing the top of Viktor's head. No matter if it sounds like the attacker wasn’t in the right frame of mind, he can’t forgive anyone who tries to hurt Viktor in any capacity. Even if it's himself.

Viktor huffs and pushes himself upright, his stare zeroing in on Yuuri once again. “But it's just _hair_ , Yuuri,” he says. “I know I worry about it thinning, but what I felt back then is nothing compared to what I felt when I heard you on the phone that day asking for my help. I was so scared that I had lost you, and when they finally let me see you in here, you already looked dead. You were...you were so pale and so small...” He shudders, tears sticking to his eyelashes as he blinks away the memory, and then he cups Yuuri's face between his hands like he needs the physical reminder that Yuuri is real. “And now, to know that I almost lost someone most precious to me thanks someone claiming to be my fan, how do you think that makes me feel?”

Oh, maybe Yuuri _has_ been selfish. While he cares about Viktor more than anything in this world and the next, how has he forgotten that Viktor has the exact same intense feelings for him? This is the person that helped him discover the meaning of love by showcasing his own from day one, even when Yuuri hadn’t been quite ready to accept it.

What would happen to Viktor if Yuuri had died? The thought alone of being separated causes a cocktail of emotions to churn inside his belly, ranging from anger to agony. If this is any degree of what Viktor felt, it's no wonder he's so distraught.

Yuuri could protest that he didn't mean it, his platitudes plentiful yet ultimately meaningless. He could apologize a thousand times, even force his injured body into a dogeza if necessary. He could do anything that's required of him in order to snatch the anguish off Viktor’s face.

“...But you didn't lose me,” Yuuri says, slowly. He turns his head in Viktor's palm and kisses at the skin above the wrist, the quickening of Viktor's pulse like wings fluttering underneath Yuuri's lips. “I told you I wouldn't let that happen. I'm going to win gold for you, remember? Don't tell me you forgot already.”

Viktor's eyes widen and they quickly gain a bright, wet shine. He nods with a wavering smile before he peppers Yuuri’s face with soft, slow kisses, from the forehead to the chin and back again, until they're both left breathless from laughter. “Oh Yuuri, _my Yuuri_ ,” he whispers, wistful, punctuating the name with pecks to each corner of Yuuri’s mouth, “that's exactly what I hoped you would say.”

\---

Honestly, Yuuri doesn’t consider it that much of an accomplishment for him to be out of his hospital bed when he’s only a meter away from it. He’d prefer to be up and walking around, testing the limits of his recovering limbs and gauging their improvement. But Viktor’s made him promise not to attempt anything too strenuous without assistance, so Yuuri will accept every little bit of independence he can get. Even if it just means he’s sitting by the window in a wheelchair rather than sitting in the bed.

The phone in his lap--with a new case and screen to replace the ones that were damaged--buzzes every now and then with texts from Viktor, who’s currently out after picking up Yuuri’s father from the airport and then taking his mother out grocery shopping so Hiroko can finally uphold her offer of making katsudon. Convincing Viktor to leave Yuuri’s side, even for a short period of time, was no easy task, especially since Yuuri himself was hesitant of letting Viktor go. But there’s no sense of them both being cooped up in the hospital, and Yuuri is hopeful that his family will help ease Viktor’s worries enough to get the rest he’s not receiving by staying at Yuuri’s bedside at all hours of the day.

(Though Yuuri can’t deny he’s counting down the hours until Viktor is supposed to return later this evening.)

The newest message is a picture of Makkachin, who seems to be enjoying his return to the apartment after his impromptu stay with Yakov and Lilia. Yuuri grins at the image of both Viktor and Makkachin on the couch, with the caption ‘Missing you for couch cuddles!!’ and is about to respond when he hears someone clear their throat behind him.

“I’d kick you for being such an idiot and getting yourself hurt, Katsudon, but I’m not about to hit a guy in a wheelchair.”

Yuuri swivels his head around and his grin widens when he sees Yuri lounging in the doorway. “Hey Yurio,” he calls out in greeting. “And thanks for that. I think.”

“ _Damn_.” Yuri lets out a low whistle. “Viktor had said it was bad on the phone, but you really do look like shit.” He pushes himself off the door frame and walks further into the room, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his leopard print jacket. “Though I heard you at least got a couple hits in yourself. Did you really make some guy’s spleen explode?”

“Um.” Yuuri scratches the back of his head, not sure how to respond. It’s not necessarily something he’s proud of but he doesn’t regret it either. “Kind of.”

“ _Nice,”_ Yuri says, because of course he's a weirdo who’d have admiration for something like that. “Though if it had been me, I’d aim for their kidneys too and make them piss blood for weeks.” After a beat, he fishes through his pockets and then throws something into Yuuri’s lap. “Here, I figured this would be the only chance you’ll get to see it up close.”

“What--” Yuuri starts to ask, but then stops when he looks down at the solid weighted object now in his hands.

Ah.

He holds the medal aloft and watches it swing slightly, the gold glinting in the light filtered in from the window blinds.

“Congratulations, Yurio,” Yuuri says, sincere in his happiness for Yuri’s win despite the circumstances surrounding it. “I’m glad at least you could make it to Worlds.”

“Are you kidding me? With you and Viktor not there, _someone_ had to make sure JJ didn’t get gold.” Yuri hops up onto the window sill by Yuuri’s side, the heels of his sneakers banging against the wall and leaving dirty scuff marks behind. “Between Otabek getting silver and your friend getting bronze, he didn’t even make podium. Serves him right, the asshole.”

It had been close though. The disappointment of not being there in person had still been too fresh for Yuuri to watch the competition live, but he had at least looked up the scores afterwards to see how everyone else did. There was slight spark of pride within him when he saw no one had managed to break his world record for the free skate, with the highest score still digits away from his own. He’s already determined that if anyone does surpass it, it’s going to be himself.

‘ _I really wish you were here,_ ’ Phichit had said when Yuuri called to congratulate him on getting third place. ‘ _I know it’s not fair to say that when my best friend is dying in the hospital--_ ’

‘ _Phichit, I’m_ not _dying--_ ’

‘-- _but I really wish you were here. Even if it meant I couldn’t be on the podium because you and Viktor would be on top of it already_.’

“Thanks for letting me see it, Yurio,” Yuuri says as he tries to hand the medal back over to its owner. “You really do deserve this.”

“Tch, it was easy. Even easier when I didn’t have any real competition there besides Otabek.” Yuri slides off the sill and sticks his hands back into his pockets. “...Just hold onto it.”

Yuuri blinks. There’s no way he’s heard Yuri correctly. “What? I can’t do that; it’s yours. You worked hard to get it--”

“Did your brain get pummeled into mush? I just said it was easy,” Yuri snaps back. “It’s not as much of a challenge when I don’t have yours and Viktor’s asses to kick.” He pauses and then sighs. “Look, Katsudon, it’s not like I’m letting you hold onto it forever or anything, it’s just a reminder of what you missed. If it makes you feel better, it’s probably not even real gold, alright?”

“Keep it,” Yuuri says, thrusting it back over to Yuri. When Yuri steps back and refuses to take it, Yuuri tries again, repeating, “ _I said_ keep it. I’ll get my own gold next year, right after I get the one for the Grand Prix.”

Yuri’s head darts up at that, and Yuuri swears there’s a flash of hope in his eyes before Yuri pulls the hood of his jacket over his face. “Yeah, right. I’d like to see you try.” He snorts, but he still snatches the medal from Yuuri’s outstretched hand. He heads towards the exit in an obvious motion to leave, stopping when he reaches the open door of the room. “...Hurry up and get out of here already,” he says, his back turned towards Yuuri. “It’s boring without having you at the rink.”

\---

It doesn’t truly hit Yuuri how much he’s missed the ice until he sees it again.

It’s been weeks upon weeks, now going on months, and yet it feels like it’s been a lifetime since he’s stood where he is now. The rink is exactly the same as he remembers; not that he thought it would change in his absence, but that its familiarity is welcoming him back with open arms. It’s akin to slipping on a favorite old t-shirt whose fabric has been worn buttery soft from repeated use, a comfortable reminder of days long past.

It’s also a homecoming for him because this is his home; this is where he belongs. He’s proven that he has every right to be here, more than anyone else, at the cost of his own body and mind. His scars, both figurative and literal, silence any naysayers who might say otherwise.

As if on cue, he shifts the weight on his right leg to ease the stiffness that’s starting to build up inside the joints. It doesn’t pain him much nowadays, only after vigorous physical therapy or exercise, and it’s still nothing he can’t handle. His limp is to the point where it’s hardly noticeable unless someone studies him close enough. This is why it’s always Viktor who’s the first to suggest they head back when on their daily jogs, way before Yuuri even has the chance to say anything himself.

Everyone in the skating community is speculating whether or not Yuuri will take this season off. He and Viktor have discussed it multiple times themselves, because while he’s older than most of his contenders, he’s still young enough that he has time to return. After all, if Viktor can skip a season to coach and come back as the skating powerhouse that he is, Yuuri can too.

But the stubborn, competitive streak that runs deep inside him isn’t content with that. He hasn’t made the official announcement of his plans quite yet, but those closest to him already know that he’s going to start his training soon. It’ll be difficult, considering he has to get used to skating with a body that’s still on the mend, but he’s confident he can do it. He wants to win in spite of anyone out there who might think he doesn’t deserve it. Who thinks he doesn’t deserve Viktor.

He leans against the rink barrier, propping his face in his hands, his breath coming out in small puffs of fog in the cool controlled temperature of the rink. The itch to be on the ice right now is strong, stronger than he ever imagined it would be. But he hadn’t planned on skating today, not yet, so his skates are still back at the apartment. He supposes he could always rent a pair, but the thought of using skates anyone has access to makes him jittery.

...Well, guess he’s still a little paranoid after all. But no one can really blame him.

He sighs and pushes himself back upright. Besides, he hasn't come here to skate. Viktor had texted him earlier, asking for Yuuri to meet him here so they can meet for lunch afterwards. Yuuri's arrived a few minutes before the appointed time in hopes of catching the last bits of Viktor's practice, because if he can't satisfy the pressing urge to skate just yet, he can at least experience it through Viktor by proxy.

But Viktor is nowhere to be found. Yuuri had headed straight for the ice because he thought Viktor would be practicing the choreography for both their new programs for the upcoming season. He’s seen glimpses of the notepad Viktor’s been scribbling in over the past couple of days, but whenever Yuuri tries to get a better peek at it, he gets shooed away with a laugh for attempting to ‘ruin the surprise.’ Yuuri knows Viktor is a visionary when it comes to this sort of thing and he trusts whatever Viktor comes up with is going to be amazing per usual. But honestly, he wants to know what he’s getting himself into this time around. He hasn’t even settled on his theme for this year yet, though when he had contemplated out loud about using ‘life’ as his inspiration, Viktor had got a really weird look in his eyes. Before Yuuri could ask what was wrong, Viktor had wrapped his arms around Yuuri and had refused to let go for a full five minutes. So Yuuri doesn’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing.

Those same arms now loop around his neck from behind. “Yuuuuuuri~” Viktor purrs into his ear. “There you are, just in time. Are you ready to go eat?”

“Not yet,” Yuuri says. He leans back into Viktor’s embrace, smiling when Viktor rests his chin on top of Yuuri's head. Yuuri’s stomach grumbles lowly at the mention of food; his appetite has only recently returned after his hospital stay, contributing to him having a low off-season weight for once which is such a bizarre concept for him. But he ignores the stirrings of hunger pangs as he continues to gaze out to the crystalline surface of the ice. It's silly to be so reluctant to leave when he knows he’ll be here again soon enough. Yet his feet remain frozen in place, unwilling to move.

Viktor chuckles underneath his breath and then presses a kiss to Yuuri’s hair. If anyone can understand what Yuuri is feeling, it's him. “Soon, _zolotse moyo,_ ” he says as he tugs Yuuri closer. “I can't wait to share the ice with you again.”

“Me either,” Yuuri says before turning himself around so he can meet Viktor's lips with his own, the ice soon forgotten. For now at least.

There’s no guarantee that it’ll be smooth sailing for either of them after this. In their line of careers, there’s always a chance that something could go wrong, whether it be sustaining a permanent injury, losing a major competition, or even dealing with any other rabid, delusional fans that might exist. Yuuri now knows that there’s those out there who could hate him, hate Viktor, or hate both of them together and will do anything possible to tear them down from the top of the world.

 _Let them try_ , he thinks. He and Viktor will show them all.

**Author's Note:**

> Excuse my Google-fu if any of these translations are wrong!  
>  **solnyshko** \- 'sunshine'  
>  **Иди́ отсюда́ на́ хуй, Япошка!** \- 'get the fuck out of here, Yaposhka' (slur for a person of Japanese descent)!  
>  **Хуй с горы** \- Literal translation is 'Dick from the mountain' but basically it means telling an outsider they don't belong  
>  **Еб твою мать** \- 'fuck your mother'  
>  **Я, бля, зна́ю где ты живёшь** \- 'I fucking know where you live'  
>  **dorogoi moy** \- 'my dear'  
>  **lyubimyy moy** \- 'my favorite'  
>  **kotyonok** \- diminutive form of ‘kitten’  
>  **izvineeti/izvineeti, pazhalusta!** \- 'excuse me'/'excuse me, sorry!'  
>  **Zatknis'** \- 'Shut up' Supposedly rude like 'shut the fuck up'  
>  **Idi syuda, idiota kusok** \- 'Come here, idiot'  
>  **Suchka blyat** \- 'Fucking little bitch'  
>  **yebat tebya v rot** \- Literal translation is 'Fuck you in the mouth' but basically you're fucked (because you made a mistake)  
>  **lyubov moy** \- 'my love'  
>  **zolotse/zolotse moyo** \- 'my gold'
> 
> You can also find me on my tumblr, <http://teekettle.tumblr.com/>


End file.
